


Paris, 1899

by Mikanskey



Series: Cities and years [1]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Historical, Antisemitism, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bohemian life, Boys In Love, Charles is a young bourgeois, Comfort/Angst, Declarations Of Love, Drama & Romance, Erik is an artist, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Love at First Sight, M/M, Paris (City), Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, but angst noneless, happy end because I can't write sad endings, historical cameo, the author has a thing with poetic fluffiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikanskey/pseuds/Mikanskey
Summary: Paris, at the end of the 19th century.This is where Erik decided for a while to lay down his meager luggage.This is where he hoped to find calm and inspiration for his art.But instead this is where he found love...





	1. Those eyes.

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Paris, 1899](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6187840) by [Mikanskey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikanskey/pseuds/Mikanskey). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now this fic has a brand new translation and correction made by Autheane. A very very enormous work for her to find the right word, my writing in french can be a little bit cryptic sometimes ^_^'.

If we were to start at the beginning, we would be speaking about the huge celebration that took place in the capital in the year 1899. The Universal exposition was soon to begin and Paris was decorated with flags from all nations. The Champ de Mars and the Seine's bank were a gigantic construction site, and the most surprising shapes were rising, inspired by extravagant creations from megalomaniac architects. Everywhere were celebrated arts and merry times, and open wide were the doors of the Belle Époque. In this electrical year, they were reaching for workers and fortune seekers, penniless artists and rich merchants from around the world. The atmosphere was bursting with energy to improve and enjoy the new century. The city was almost suffocating.

 

_Suffocate..._

 

This was at least how it felt for the young worker dragging, with difficulty, a heavy metal ridge under the dull December sun. Four months left to achieve the outrageously decorated German's pavilion. He looked up, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The clock's tower was already erected and the roofers were now working on the hills of this carnival-like edifice.

  
_Already December..._  


Erik had arrived this year in Paris, in June, when the dust of the streets wrestled with the summer rays.

He had settled in Montmartre.

Nothing really original, truly, but where better to find a lower-cost roof over his head, other than in this bohemian neighborhood, a cut-throat area, crowded—or so they said—by madmen and whores. So, there he lived, in an attic on the fourth floor of a dilapidated building that still emitted the rustic charm of domestics digs. The wild life that was his neighbors lived like an anthill, up with the sun or lying down at twilight. The noise of the bustling, popular life never ceased. He did not really know if it displeased him or not, often locked away as he was in the nostalgia of the past or his anger for the present.

 

Erik was born in Poland, in a small family of Jewish merchants. From his father, Jacob, he had inherited his slender waist, his blond highlighted hair, and the racy look of Slavic sons. Edie, his mother, had bequeathed him a stubborn sense of duty and grey-green eyes that could pass from the most terrifying coldness to the sweetest smile in an instant.

 

The sound of a bell. Time for a break and for the switching of the crews on the construction site. Erik picked up his coat and his hat that were left on a bench along the palisades. He quickly walked to the foreman's table to receive the few pennies that made his pay of the day. As a foreigner, he had been hired as an extra and could be, overnight, given his leave. The pay was calculated on hours worked per day.  


_\- Lehnsherr, yeah, there._ He held out a handful of coins.

Erik did not answer, pocketed his money, and left the place already resonating with the noise from the resumption of the work.

  
It was 11AM. A dry, cold breeze chilled his neck as he walked uptown, his cap screwed on his head, his collar turned up and his hands shoved deep in his coarse cloth pockets.

 

 _Damn Parisian winter_  


Nothing in common with Italy. What a bright sun there had been. Three beautiful years of art and light, of easy life and minor shenanigans. A country of offered youth and recklessness where his misery had not bothered him, as long as his conquests at the time provided him with bread and a bed corner.

But there had been rumors.

And then he had to leave.

  
The Parisian streets became more winding the closer he got to his neighborhood. He finally arrived at his building. From the front door, forever open, shouts were escaping. A young woman, a Mulatto Spanish beauty came out in a flood of red skirts.

 - Go fuck yourselves, all of you! I'll not be giving anymore pennies to this asshole; I earned that money with my ass, and in my pocket, it will end up!

 

Angel Salvatore. This young Calabrian lived right under Erik's attic. Scandals between her and Az, her pimp's right hand, resonated through all the neighborhood regularly. It was him now, that was shadowing the door's opening. A Russian man with tanned skin, hair as dark as night and a face sliced with scars ; he looked like a devil and to be honest, it was the perfect appearance for his job. He did not speak, or close to never. Angel shouted for the both of them.

 

Seeing how the argument resumed and was far from over, Erik slipped passed the two belligerents without waiting.

 

No need for him to embark on these habits of wrangling since they would resume the next day. He resolutely climbed the wonky steps of the narrow stairs, came up to his flat, and finally slammed the door shut. A beautiful white light was illuminating the single room. In one corner: a mattress, a dresser covered with books, large sheets of paper rolled and tied with rope.

 

A big armchair up holstered with purple curtain was an opulent color stain in this more than modest setting. The rest of the room was occupied by a small wooden box table upon which a vase sat where four roses were drying. A cracked porcelain bowl was filled with a small amount of clear water. Drawing cartons were invading all the free space, part of their contents escaping along with the damp smell of fresh ink.

 

Erik threw his coat on the chair and grabbed the left-over piece of bread from this morning. He took a bite absentmindedly, while retrieving apiece of charcoal and a sketch left unfinished on the makeshift bed.

 

 _Artist, what a fine job that was.._.

 

His father certainly would not have appreciated his only son to fall for this kind of down-and-out occupation. But Erik had always had it in him. This want to leave somewhere, a trace of the images he saw when closing his eyes. The pictures and especially the shadows. The black, a lot of black on white. He sketched without real conviction the shape of a door, the lines of a street lamp and a little night scene rapidly took shape. He darkened it with lots of strokes, and the luscious young woman that was the centerpiece transformed into a wild-eyed devil. She escaped him, this figure, too vulgar, not intriguing enough. He would have to rework this.

 

The church's clock resonated in the distance. Long drawling strikes announcing the thirteenth hour. Erik let go of his sketch then. He still had half an hour to bathe and get somewhat presentable. His second job started at 2 PM. Two jobs to put together just enough money to pay the rent, his pittance, and especially his art equipment.

 

The young man sighed, resigned, and got up. His shoulders were sore from this morning's efforts.

 

Twenty-five minutes later, he was down the stairs, freshly shaven and his hair tamed. Angel and Az were gone. The street was no less noisy, vegetable and fruit merchants had settled with their makeshift stalls. Tattlers' conversations were filling the air and warmed the atmosphere. Erik bought a nice green apple to complete his meager lunch and resolutely went in the direction of the grand boulevards.

 

In the last four months, in addition to working on the construction sites of the Exposition, he was employed as a clerk by the Hôtel Drouot, the famous auction house.

 

When he arrived, people were already crowding the back doors of the building. The place was spewing huge crates, rickety antiques and precious art pieces in a back-and-forth of sweating unloaders and uptight footmen.

 

Erik noticed a familiar face. He joined a hairy fellow with bulging muscles. He was welcomed by a big thump on the shoulder.

-Hey, Mr Artist. So, you've taken the time powder your nose? You know, there's no risk of you picking up any chicks in this hutch! Unless you're in to old widows!

-Thank you, Logan. What about you, have you thought of bathing in the last two days?

 

Erik cracked a smile while his colleague grunted amusedly. He appreciated this big guy, as brutal as he was friendly, and their exchanges of perpetual jesting. He was the one who had found this second job for him. Under the appearance of an unfriendly oaf, Logan had a full network of contacts and good plans in Paris. So, even if Erik was reluctant to befriend anyone, this one was worth rubbing the right way.

-Get a move on, they're about to start in there. You're in room 2, on the ground floor.

-aah, you're a true mother for me!

Both hands on his heart, he put on an air of a loving child.

\- Fuck off asshole.

 

Erik turned on his heels; behind him Logan was feigning exasperation.

When entering the building, Erik barely avoided two movers carrying a closet. It opened suddenly, an inner plank falling on the pavement. At the crash of the wood mixed the sputter of swearwords from the two men. Without consideration, Erik ran to the auction room.

 

Upon his arrival, the auctioneer was still absent and Erik took his time to settle in a corner of the room. He enjoyed keeping hidden from view behind stacks of chairs decorated with rich fabric and furniture at the end of their lives. There, like a tiger on the prowl, he could monitor the audience, the rich patrons, the ragged antiquarians. All this fauna of collectors as variegated as they were pathetic.

 

_Fighting for these golden trinkets, a real hobby for idle snob._

He despised these people, but he could not deny that after his physical efforts from his morning, getting back to the cozy atmosphere of Drouot was a real pleasure. Today as was usual, he was standing back a little, hidden between a languid Venus made of dull plaster and an Empire style low chair. The walls covered with red velvet gave to the room a soft, dusty and drowsy atmosphere.

 

He scrutinized the crowd of the day.

 

He was starting to recognize the regulars ; he even greeted some of them. A small plump lady in the front row seemed to be fascinated by a rococo window box ; she was wriggling impatiently, awaiting the sale of her number. At the back, the audience members who could not find a place to sit were piling up standing. The guest entrance was situated at the back of the room.

 

The throng of people were fidgeting a bit. People grunted and grumbled. A late comer had just entered the already full room and was apparently eager to find a good location. Which was quite impossible, every chair was taken, even the old Louis XV sofa that was to be auctioned in the afternoon had found a use for an Italian couple sprawling on it.

 

_The self-important laggards ; a real pleasure to watch them interact with their peers._

With a smile on his lips, Erik gave his full attention to the newcomer.

It was an important man, it showed in his appearance. The chin high, the tight coat, the confident smile of someone knowing himself supported by the right people, the assurance of someone who believes in the stability of his future. He managed to slip to a good spot, standing yes, but well within sight.

 

 _He wants to see the sale or to be seen?_ Erik wondered, a bit annoyed by the assumed arrogance of the Bourgeois man, who had just bumped into a slender lady who did not dare to say a word.

 

The man turned back and spoke to someone behind him. He took an irritated tone, disdainful. Violently, he seized the arm of a young man whom he dragged at his side. The latter pulled back sharply and held himself resolutely further back, sending the man still lecturing him, a dark glare.

 

A dark glare: it was a figure of speech. There was no darkness in that look; a flame, yes, glowing, burning, but no darkness.

Erik felt his whole body come alive with a violent shudder.

Blue eyes. Intensely blue and so vividly bright that Erik remained hypnotized.

He was probably no more than twenty. Brown locks, skin like porcelain and above all, incredible lips, red to the point of being obscene, delicious and full lips. Lips, he thought, for which he would have sold what was left of his soul. This young man looked like he had just stepped out of a painting by one of those pre-Raphaelites Englishmen who portrayed muses and sensuous magical temptresses doomed to despair.

There were a few words exchanged by the massive Bourgeois man and the other who was probably his son, although their likeness was not particularly striking. The father took on an obtuse air, brows furrowed, growling a threat. Then he finally shrugged and turned his attention back to the platform where the auctioneer had just appeared.

Erik did not pay attention to the master of ceremonies entering. There was a little noise from the crowd, then with the solemn gesture of the hammer striking wood, it was the beginning of the sale. A back and forth of clerks, objects, hands raised, trades of bills. A turmoil as regulated as a metronome.

But this auction dance did not pull Erik from his contemplation. He could not help observing the young stranger. He had turned from the sale wearily and was scanning the room. He must have been dragged here with force. A chore for the idle rich with very little restriction, he decided bitterly.

How different must their worlds be—radically different. What kind of opulent-looking home could he live in? He most certainly studied law, as was often the case, and probably sipped wine and ate ice-creams at the Café Tortoni with a whole group of brazen aristocrats, quick to squander the family fortune and to knock maids up.

Another world... Repulsive with complacency. Everything Erik loathed.

And yet... This young man was looking at everything surrounding him: mismatched objects, the cosmopolitan faces of the room's crowd. He detailed everything with an air of naive intelligence, an interest for every item and every person.

Erik read real curiosity in those azure orbs sweeping from face to face. Bright interest painting his face and opening his features to a beautiful air of confidence. Erik was taking mental notes, his fingers itching at not being able to capture such an expressive figure on paper.

Suddenly, he held his breath.

Their eyes had just caught.

He felt like lightning had struck through his body, an electric shock gripped his heart making it leap almost painfully in his chest. In the young man's look, there was real surprise: amazement at being caught at his own game or shyness, Erik could not tell, his mind felt frozen. The feeling was very strange, and it was the first time such a thing had happened to him.

The young aristocrat did not divert his eyes. He was watching him intensely. He felt hypnotized, too, by this suspended moment of intimacy in the middle of the crowd. They were suddenly alone, both of them thrown into empty space.

Far away, as if muffled by a blanket, the auctioneer's voice was announcing the sales, the numbers succeeded one another.

Erik lost all notion of time, absorbed wholly by this gaze.

When one of his colleagues indicated with a nudge that it was time for him to present an item. He tore himself from his dream to grab, unthinkingly, a vase that was handed to him, enraged about the precious seconds lost to his contemplation. He walked, mechanically and detached, toward the stage. He waited until the prices soared, got the vase back, and handed it to another clerk.

Automatic reflexes of the job— effective.

It was only a few lost moments really, but the strange feeling had stuck there, in him. More than a curiosity, a need that commanded him not to waste the fleeting instants in this complete stranger's presence.

Erik got back to his place, a little set back behind the table of experts, and looked for the young man in the crowd. He had not moved and had not stopped watching him. He caught his eye immediately and the sparkle of a smile illuminated even more those blue eyes. He could not stop himself from answering him with a wink. This time, it was almost laughter, pretty quickly hidden behind a discreet move of the hand, that Erik caught on the young aristocrat's face. He was adorable.

A voice tore them both from their mute exchange.

The father had just outbid someone on a painting ; he had fought for it fiercely with another collector to eventually win the sale. A satisfied smile wrinkled his face. He puffed out his chest, as proud as a bullfighter.

A small stiff man came to demand the payment and his signature on the auction's book. He complied with a lot of formal gestures

-Charles, go watch over the wrapping of this canvas, I would not like for it to take a bad blow in the storehouse because of some hirelings' hazardous manipulation! He thundered.

Erik clenched his jaw, _hirelings... We are nothing more to them._

I would have liked to see the end of the auction. Answered the young man with a beautiful clear-cut voice and sure poise.

A dark glare that broke no contestation was thrown back at him.

Erik watched him comply, probably preferring not to defy the paternal authority in public.

He was directed to the storehouse, following a clerk who was taking the painting away.

Passing near the auction stage, he turned towards Erik. His face was sporting a neutral expression, but in his eyes, there were so many things, a chaos of feelings.

And Erik felt his mind buzz, this meeting seemed like a miracle to him but it was more likely to be a curse. To what torments would lead these eyes... To what pleasures?

Two simple words were left resonating in him, almost a command: _follow him!_


	2. Follow him.

The heavy double-wing door had just closed with a thud. Charles was following the clerk in the corridor leadingto the storehouse. It was dark, a dusty and stale smell was permeating the air. In front of him, the man in a black work uniform with red trims was walking briskly, the painting in his hands. Paying no mind to the young man accompanying him, or at least, it seemed like it. His closed off and a bit haughty look could suggest otherwise, but Charles stopped his observation there. He had no interest of befriending this man.

No, for that matter, he did not feel like he was really present. His mind had remained in the auction room.

He could only think of this clear gaze - intense.

Of this smile, of this stranger.

And to say he almost didn't come.

For once, he could thank his tyrant of a stepfather who had snatched him away from his beloved studies to force him to go with him. The part of a well-behaved coat rack, nothing more. More time lost to parade like a peacock and to throw his new fortune in people's face.

Charles hated the feeling of being the center of attention, to be appraised, weighed like a bag of gold. And he knew it, gossip was rife in those salons. He was the Xavier heir, one of the biggest fortunes in Paris, the son of the famous archeologist philanthropist, Brian Xavier. A good match, although a bit of a whippersnapper.

The most informed said that he was the young American who still lived under the yoke of some man named Kurt Marko, second husband to Sharon Xavier, a pedantic bourgeois man with a taste for dubious investments.

And low-class frauds were not lacking in that capital of all sorts of mad ideas, where people put their fortunes at risk for miraculous inventions and the most improbable temptations. Kurt squandered the family fortune, it was public knowledge.

Charles had not wanted to come to this auction. He had not wanted to be dragged here, forced to assist to these big money duels to acquire a painted or sculpted daub. An umpteenth trinket to end up in the reception hall of their private mansion already saturated with golden monstrosities. Kurt had no taste anyway.  He only wanted to impress the gallery and prided himself on his knowledge of culture even though he hated art viscerally. A "hobby for lazy people" as he would say.

But...

But if Charles had not come, he would never have crossed that gaze.

The gaze of this man.

Grey, maybe green, eyes first shadowed by an air of anger, of cold resentment. But attractive, hypnotizing, eyes that captivate you. And that smile, he had felt his whole body warm up suddenly at its sight. This stranger was fascinating, there was something in him, something like... mistrust or maybe... freedom.

Freedom that Charles was envious of. Free to choose. Free to leave. Free to live. Free to... if only...

-Janos, wait!

The clerk stopped and turned around. Charles too, a little surprised at being jolted out of his thoughts, even more so when he recognized the man who had caught up to them. The stranger occupying his mind so much was there, panting a little and putting back in place a chestnut lock of hair with ginger highlights in an irritated move.

-Wait, I'll take care of this, there's another piece of furniture to move in the main room and they need you. You're stronger than me, they have asked me to call you. I'm taking care of this.

And with authority, he grabbed the painting from the clerk's hands, who frowned. But for some inexplicable reason, he did not answer anything to his questionable excuse and shrugged before turning on his heels to walk back the corridor in the direction of the auction room. Charles was speechless. The situation was pretty comical. His mysterious stranger seemed as surprised as he was that his lie had passed without so much as a stir.

There was no piece of furniture for at least another twenty lots. Of that, Charles was certain.

-Follow me, please.

The stranger had gotten his confident air back, almost insolent. But now, Charles suspected that this attitude hid something...

He continued his way down the corridor, after the man of whom he could now detail the shape. Taller than he, maybe half a head taller. A waist amazingly thin leading up to square shoulders. An attractive figure that could have been nothing more if not for the surprising grace in his gait. The kind of sophisticated virility turning people's heads in society gatherings.

They quickly reached a big cluttered room full of crates of all size, of packages hanging from the exposed structure's beams, of rolled carpets and canvas stored in wobbly stacks against the walls. Sculptures rolled in brown wrapping paper formed ghostly shapes in dark nooks. The scanty lighting of three sconces further accentuated the shadows of this cave of dilapidated wonders.

They were alone. The clerk put the painting on a large table and took off his white gloves. With a steady hand, he unrolled and cut a large sheet of paper to protect the artwork. His hands, noted Charles, were long and thin. His fingers were smeared with black ink. A printer? Maybe a writer, or a poet? He couldn't hold back a discreet chuckle: honestly, he should get rid of those pathetically romantic thoughts!

-Does my appearance inspire you mockery?

Charles startled and swallowed his good mood. The clerk's voice had cut through the muted silence reigning in the room. He had not even bothered to turn to call out to him this abruptly. He kept working efficiently, choosing a length of rope to tie the package. His movements suddenly stiff.

 Far from being appalled by the biting tone, Charles immediately felt guilty that his attitude had been misunderstood.

-No, you are mistaken. I was actually mocking myself. A ridiculous thought came to me suddenly, nothing more.

To give himself countenance, he leaned on a little desk casually, arms crossed over his chest.

The clerk was finishing wrapping the painting up.

-And what was that thought? Let the hireling that I am enjoy a little piece of rich people's hilarity.

He cut the too long rope with a swift move then put the package flat on the table.

Charles did not know what to answer.  The attack was straight forward, almost rude and yet, he felt like the bitterness of that statement was not really directed against him.

-Once again, I did not mean to upset you and you should know that I do not endorse the scornful words of my stepfather. I am not accustomed to judging a stranger by their appearance only and if I may, you could show me the same reserve.

The man turned to him. Everything, from his attitude to his icy look, spoke of cold dignified anger of outraged pride. He walked up toCharles who raised his chin and clenched his fists, determined not to run away. The uncouthness of Parisian males was not unfamiliar to him. He had faced way worse specimens in his short life.

A flash passed through grey eyes.

Charles held his breath.

Something feral had surged in this gaze. A spark of... desire? What was?...

-You're right, I did not show any reserve. With you... It seems... that I do not know how to...

The tone had changed. From icy to... burning. This voice was deep and warm. Predatory and seductive all at once. It only took one instant for Charles to feel possessed anew, projected into empty space just like a few minutes prior in the auction room.

The clerk took a step more toward him.

Charles straightened up then, and suddenly realized with dread that he did not have much space left between the desk behind him, the crates at his side and this man approaching him slowly.

And who kept advancing. His features quivering with fascinating intensity. Charles could not stop his breath from quickening, nor his heart from pounding so strongly. His mind was chaos, he could see no more, hypnotized by this look getting closer still until he found himself trapped between two outstretched arms. The stranger had just put both of his hands flat on the desk he was leaning on, pinning him to the wooden desk with his hips. His face was so close to his that he suddenly felt dizzy, plunging into steel grey orbs.

He closed his eyes but did not manage to find his composure back. He was intoxicated with sensations. Inexplicably possessed by uncontrolled desire, something he was discovering there, a strange thirst for this male body pressed against his.

A shiver ran from his neck to the small of his back, awakening his skin even more. Under the thin layer of their clothes, he could feel the burning tension of both their hardness. It was madness. Never had he felt this way... Never had a man... He could not... He should...

He sensed the breath of this man he did not even know the name of, warm his lips.

His throat atrociously dry, Charles swallowed. His reason was still struggling, but his body had already surrendered, he heard himself whisper.

-Do it...

 

A shout reverberated violently through the large room.

-CHARLES?! But where is he, damn it! Does he think I have all the time in the world?!

The clerk had moved aside so suddenly, one could believe he had just been electrocuted. The two young men were looking at each other, short of breath and eyes open wide, still reeling from this interruption and especially from the intensity with which they had been attracted to each other.

When Kurt Marko finally reached them with an employee from the auction house, Charles was still trying to straighten his appearance. He felt flushed and that feeling of almost being caught out by his stepfather horrified him. Toward what abyss had he almost fell?

-Ah, here you are! So, this painting? Is it ready?

Kurt was visibly in a hurry, as always, and his face tensed with annoyance made him look like a bulldog. He stared at his stepson with a raised eyebrow, a mix of scorn and disgust on his lips. He could not have seen anything but Charles could not stop himself from shuddering in instinctive fear.

The clerk was busy at the wrapping table. He put back a pencil in a tool box and took the wrapped painting, handling it to the bourgeois man. The latter looked at him like he had grown a second head.

-Honestly, what do you think? That I'm going to carry it under my arm? What are you paid for? Follow us to the carriage! I must be dreaming!

-Gentlemen, please follow me, I will escort you to the exit. Please accept our apologies for this unfortunate set back.

The obsequious employee who had surged in between them, had almost bowed and was looking daggers at the clerk who didn't flinch. Charles was mortified, he could only sigh and follow his stepfather who had started walking to the exit like a conqueror. The clerk was following at the rear of the group, tight lipped and holding the painting in front of him like a page carrying the crown jewels.

They passed through the door of the auction house and the coach driver waiting for them got down from his seat to take the package. Once free, the clerk elegantly grabbed the door handle of the carriage and opened it with a nod that was the perfect replica of the bow of the Ancien Régime, a wide smile across his face.

-If these good sirs would like to take a sit, with all the best compliments from Maison Drouot!

Charles could not suppress a laugh he masked as a sudden cough. Kurt did not appreciate irony.

-This establishment should see to the behavior of their employees.

But for all that, he climbed in first, heavily and grumbling. The young man pretended, by holding out his arm, to help Charles to step on the footboard in turn. But just when he was about to grasp this extended hand, it shied away and he felt something being slipped in his coat pocket.

-I will be waiting for you.

Six words, barely a whisper, but he had heard them all the same. He plunged one last time into the clear gaze of the stranger and, letting nothing transpire of his trouble, finally climbed into the coach and the door covered with opaque fabric slammed shut.

 

____________

 

_German Pavillion, midday tomorrow. Erik._

And that was all. All that was written on the little folded piece of paper Charles had found in his coat pocket when coming home to the family mansion.

A rendezvous and a name.

_Erik._

This fascinating stranger was named _Erik_. He said it softly to try out the sound of it.

 _E.r.i.k._ It suited him so well, opening on a vowel forcing out a breath like a first sigh, then consonants vivid and sharp.

Erik.

Charles' heart was pounding again. These few hours, these few minutes, this almost kiss and now this rendezvous! All of this was completely incredible, terrifying.

Unreasonable. New. Forbidden...

-CHAAAARLES!!

He immediately hid the message in one of his desk drawers.

A stampede in the stairs followed by a tornado of blue petticoats came hurtling in his room: Raven, his little sister.

Although... Little... Soon to be seventeen and she was already taller than he! Her long blond curls tied with red ribbons fell on her shoulders. She had round cheekbones and a glowing complexion in the light of a contagious smile. She was charming, so lively and beautiful. Charles adored her.

-So, what did you see? Was there a lot of people? How were the ladies dressed? Did you meet artists? Foreign merchants? Bohemians? Tell me!!!

She was looking at him with big eyes, eager, unable to wait any longer for him to tell her about his adventures. But he did not really know what to say. Impossible to tell her any details about the hurricane that had crashed through his life a few minutes earlier.

-Oh, you know, it's all boring to death. We all pile up in a room smelling of dust and the winner is the one having the fullest wallet. Once pockets are empty, everyone leaves and that's all there is to it.

He shrugged, looking a bit jagged. She sighed disappointed.

-Oh, come now! You have the right to go out, to see the world, to meet people and I have to stay locked here where I'm ignored at best and infuriated at worst. And you do not even make the effort to telling me what I'm missing. It's unfair!

The young girl pouted then. Charles wanted to be comforting.

-You're better off at home, you know. Paris is no place for a proper lady.

That was not the right thing to say and he realized it too late.

-"Proper!" How do you mean "proper?!" How can I know if I am a "proper lady" if I cannot even meet people my own age?! I feel like you are hiding me away. I'm your little decorative pet! I'm only good to be paraded around good matches during the boring receptions of that imbecile, Kurt!

She had raised her voice, not caring of being heard by the entire house.

Her disdain for their stepfather was no secret. But she was not risking much, he was only concerned about her existence when trying to marry her off to a bedridden heir from whom he could steal the fortune. Charles was only too aware of that fact, and he was doing everything in his power to defuse the repulsive alliances Kurt planned unbeknown to his stepdaughter and in the indifference of his wife. Indeed, well before her death almost one year prior, Sharon Xavier-Marko had given up all kind of maternal attachment, preferring to drown in opium vapors and let to young Charles the responsibility of the education of his beautiful sister.

It was not easy to know how to balance between tolerance and chaperonage when he was himself only twenty-one years old and his head was full of longing for freedom. Alas, he knew that, as the months went, Raven became more and more independent; soon, his paternalistic tone would be of little use.

-Listen Darling, try to be reasonable, I cannot let you scour the streets, it's not proper and if you want to find a husband who...

-… Who will pay to support you rather than live like a parasite sponging off me!

The rude sentence had them both turn around. Kurt Marko was standing in the doorway of Charles' room. From all his height, he was looking at the siblings with a disdainful grimace on his lips.

 Charles felt anger overwhelm him. How did this man dare, someone he had no real ties with, interfere with the family business? How did he dare, after having suck the lifeblood out of his late father's fortune, to have the audacity to say that Raven was a parasite! He clenched his fists, his nails cutting into the palm of his hands.

He had to keep calm, absolutely, not to let the situation grow worse. Next to him, his sister took a breath to retort but Charles spoke before she could.

-I do not think these matters are of any interests to you, Kurt. My sister simply wants to enjoy herself a little. Winter days are very monotonous in Paris.

But today, their stepfather did not feel like calming down.

-Yes, "enjoy herself" and mostly hang about like a hussy in covered alleys! As if I didn't have enough trouble to find her a suitable match without adding having to hide her education's escheat on top of that!

Faced with such vulgarity, the young lady reached out like an arrow and Charles barely had the time to grab her arm to prevent her from slapping their stepfather. Charles himself was shaking with anger, Kurt had just clearly insinuated his sister's education, that had been so hard to give her, was poor.

He contained himself however. 

He would gain nothing from antagonizing Marko. He had the power to make their life a living Hell. For example, something that Raven did not know, was that she had avoided the sordid boarding school for young ladies only thanks to Charles' fierce struggle, who had eventually given up on his classes at the university to pay for private tutors for the young girl, out of his own pocket. 

He breathed in and declared with the calmest tone he could muster:

-I will pay special attention to her at all the events she will go to, you needn't worry about this. Besides, I intend to go visit my friend, Doctor McCoy, tomorrow morning...

Raven turned to him, eyes wide with hope: to go out with her big brother, meet his friends, he knew the young lady was dying to do so. He smiled at her and continued.

-And Raven can accompany me. He's a suitable young man and we could all go have chocolate in the new neighborhood of the Nouvel Opéra. Tea rooms there are highly recommended by our late Mother's friends.

Kurt raised his eyebrows with a contemptuous sneer.

-You seem rather knowledgeable on how to entertain young ladies, Charles. I thought you only had eyes for dusty old books and cabinets of curiosities. If you manage to unearth a spouse in one of your Parisian boudoirs, we may finally make a man out of you!

Charles, this time, felt like he would not manage to contain his anger.

Good Lord, if he had to be as stupid and violent as was his idiot stepbrother, Cain – gone for five months now for a "study" trip in every Mediterranean brothel - to have the right to be considered a man!!!

He bit his cheek.  _Do not answer that. It will lead nowhere._ The ballmarking Raven's debut in the upper-class world would take place in less than two weeks, for the new year. A lavish ball, where everybody who is anybody in Paris, from embassies to foreign residents, would be to celebrate the new century. A chance to meet advantageous people for the young lady and to allow her to find a loving husband who could free her from House Marko. It wouldn't do for him to push Kurt to his limit. His sister's future was way more important than his outraged virility.

Charles, therefore, avoided the shot again. He managed to smile, turning to the young girl who seemed like she had only one thing in mind: to go out tomorrow. Good, he wanted to see her happy.

-I'm going to see with Moira if she can help me choose my outfit, I will need a wide-brimmed hat and a fur muff! It's so cold!

She was already running down the hall, totally ignoring their stepfather and almost bumping into him.

He watched her go and with a closed off face, and turned a hard glare on Charles.

-Don't act too much like the master of the house, young man. To be left in peace, I let you do as you please, but this little game could very well start to displease me quickly.

Charles gave him his most regal air.

-Believe me, as soon as the possibility arise, you will be rid of our presence.

He followed after his sister. There was no need to follow this conversation. When he passed next to Kurt, he felt an icy sensation run through him. This man hated him. How could someone hate a boy that had never wronged them this much?

He chased these dark thoughts away from his mind.

He had, for now, to write urgently to his friend Hank to let him know of his coming on the next day. This impromptu meeting born from his imagination having been decided only a minute prior!

 

(...)

 

_11h17._

 

Charles could not concentrate - impossible. A name had just invaded every part of his brain: _Erik, Erik, Erik_... Erik, who had given him a rendezvous at midday. Erik, who smelled like danger just as much as he did excitement, Erik, who seemed to have thrown a light of chaos in his life. Erik, whom it would have been far more reasonable to never meet again...

Hank, Raven and Charles were sitting down at a table in front of a delicious white coffee, partially nibbled candies were sitting on a delicate porcelain plate. The tea room was ideally warm. The sweet atmosphere, the discreet voices of the few other patrons, and the light of the winter morning, everything was infinitely pleasant.

However, he was dying to leave, to run away... To meet this man, this mystery, Erik. It was absurd, he had so much to think about, to plan: his sister's ball to begin with. The argument he had had the day before with his stepfather had frozen his blood. He had slept very poorly. That and the burning dream he had had afterward, this warm voice that had pulled him from his sleep. _I will wait for you..._

He turned smiling to his friend, Hank McCoy.

The young doctor, brilliantly mature, had received not long-ago permission to practice as the assistant of an honorable professor in a prestigious hospital. Charles thought him promised to a bright future if he did not have the bad habit of spending his free time healing the poor at the hospice rather than courting rich bourgeois ladies prone to migraines.

But medicine seemed far from Hank's mind on this beautiful morning. Indeed, discovering two hours earlier the charming Raven, resplendent in her royal blue wide-brimmed hat, he had appeared particularly shy. And since, instead of his usual enthusiastic conversation on this or that scientific discovery that Charles was fond of, he could not stop stammering, putting his glasses back up his nose and blushing, lowering his eyes. The young lady, way smarter than his brother would have liked, simpered shamelessly and used her burgeoning charms on the good doctor. She smiled prettily, eyes bright. She liked Hank.

Minutes were flowing infinitely slowly and much too fast. Paradox.

Erik...

Charles looked forward to this rendezvous and was afraid to go. If he wanted to reach the Universal Exposition's pavilions, on the other side of the Seine, he would easily need to walk for thirty minutes or more, and briskly at that.

Both young people were so caught up in their little seduction game that they were ignoring him royally. And he could not take his eyes away from the grandfather clock where time was walking away in heavy tic-tocks.

 

_11h25._

 

-Charles? Are you lost on the Moon?

Raven had just pulled him out of his thoughts. She was laughing, eyes bright.

-Pardon me, you were saying?

She smiled sweetly because of his absent-mindedness.

-Doctor McCoy was telling us about the wonderful story of that Polish lady, with her husband, they discovered a new metal... Radium? It has astonishing properties, you know!

-Oh, Miss Raven, Charles already knows about this, it has almost been a year since this discovery was presented to the academy by the Curies. Your brother is always up with science progress.

-Yes, and I know now where his knowledge comes from! She sent a mischievous smile Hank's way, who blushed even more.

Truly, the young lady had him at her beck and call.

Charles was amused by his friend's innocence. He trusted him completely. And he could not thank him enough for sharing with him freely the number of teachings he benefited from the faculty.  So today, he was happy to see him receive some compliments.

-Charles, I was thinking of going to Au Bon Marché to buy a new pair of silk gloves to go with my cream-colored dress. Do you mind if we go?

 

_11h30._

 

_Erik._

Charles sighed. He had promised his sister distractions for the day and here he was, with only one desire, run away to join a perfect stranger at a fairwork site!

-.. I had a meeting planned at 12 o'clock. Couldn't we reschedule for tomorrow?

-Oh please! Hank... forgive me, Doctor McCoy could go with us!

-I do not think this is a good idea, this kind of place... You know that a proper lady only goes there in the company of a maid or her mother... With two men, you would risk getting a bad reputation.

Raven was already beginning to frown when Hank, surprising his friend by his sudden boldness, came to his aid.

-Please excuse me but, department stores are truly no recommendable places for a young lady of your standing, Miss Raven. Wouldn't there be another walk you would enjoy?

Appeased by the young doctor's tone, Charles watched his sister's expression change and in an instant, start on another idea.

-You're probably right... Hmm, well... I would love to go see this panorama everyone speaks of in the garden of the Champs Elysées: TheIce Palace. It's said that the light effects are superb and that you would feel transported to faraway battlefields. Moira told me it was thrilling... and that... It was very instructive.

 

_11h35._

 

Watching enthusiasm shine in his sister's eyes, Charles silenced his frustration.

_Erik._

No, it was madness. What could he expect from this kind of rendezvous?

A shiver ran through him. This man. Erik. He smelled like mystery and danger. The scent of freedom. But all this was for adventure books. In real life, he could not allow himself that kind of liberty. Not now... Probably never... All of that was forbidden, was playing with fire, it was... It was impossible.

He sighed.

_I will be waiting for you..._

Then he smiled at his sister.

-Let's go to the Panorama. I will pay for our drinks, then we can go.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again a lot of work on this chapter, a first help from: Amy. Thanks to her I was able to correct many errors and make this long chapter more readable. And now, a brand new translation by Autheane who put a lot of time and energy to make the perfect sentence each times ! Thanks !!!  
> I hope you enjoy this slow rise of desire.
> 
> And for the curious here are the small historical notes :  
> \- Marie Curie, the Franco-Polish scientist who discovered radium in 1898, an heroic woman of her time: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_Curie  
> \- A "Panorama" is a panoramic painting very fashionable in the 19th century, people came to distract themselves at the panorama : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panoramic_painting  
> -The department stores were not well considerated by the aristocracy, the promiscuity was too present and the fine clothes excited too much the nerves of the women (!) : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_Bon_March%C3%A9  
> -At the construction of the new opera, the neighborhood became very fashionable :https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palais_Garnier


	3. I'll wait for you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik gave an rendezvous to Charles on the site of the Universal Exhibition.  
> What's going to happen this afternoon?

 

 

It was well past midday!

Now, Erik was angry with himself.

How could he be so stupid, illogical, ridiculous?! He didn't live in a swashbuckling novel, damnit!

He was sitting on a pile of wooden beams. His head, covered with a beret, was resting back on the fence of the Germany pavilion's worksite. He was looking up at the sky. Big fleecy clouds were passing in the blue. The day was beautiful and almost sweet, as for him, he was wasting time waiting for a young bourgeois man whose too bright eyes had gripped his heart. He sighed.

Around him, the noise from the construction site was filling the air with the clutter of the tools' metallic sounds. Shouts from the workers echoed in every language, the Seine's bank was an horizontal tower of Babel, a formidable market of exoticism. In a few months, the great stage of the Universal Exposition would open and millions of visitors would be rushing to discover the entire world offered on a show. For now, it was mostly a heap of muscular workers and dusty foremen. Sweat and labor, the other side of the coin.

This was what he wanted to show to Charles.

Charles.

His father, or rather his stepfather, had called him Charles.

The name suited him.

Something regal and dignified, a natural intelligence crackling behind that young lord's face. Erik would have liked to know more, discover the intricacies of that mind and, he mustn't lie to himself, the taste of those appetizing lips.

He replayed yesterday's afternoon in his mind. That impulse of desire that had seized him suddenly. He had felt possessed and strangely at the mercy of that young man who represented everything he hated: the arrogance of money, the domination of social injustice. Was that what had given him that completely irrational audacity and what had urged him to approach, to conquer, to compel? He would have liked to kiss him; he could see himself, as if beside his own body, ready to devour that too red mouth, to leave painful blue marks on that creamy white skin.

All that fragile beauty that he could have stained in a few moments, he, who could only destroy those he loved.

Then he had been interrupted. Not by the ridiculous conceited stepfather. No.

Before him, there had been that whisper: do it.

These words. They had been like a cold shower. Like he had suddenly been pulled out from deep waters to be brought back to the light.

Do it. It had seemed like Charles was handing to him a sword meant to break his chains, as if a kiss could have saved him from limbo. Erik had felt invested with a near-sacred responsibility, this young man was handing his fate to him with absolute trust. What kind of naive could he be to dare to do something like this? And that voice, no more than a whisper, had not trembled. It was nor the pressure of an order, nor a pathetic plea. If it had been the case, he would have recognized the tone; distant echoes of voices from his past, orders, supplications, violent gestures, hands outstretched; another December, another city, and other ghosts.

But no, that voice, Charles' voice. It was a prayer, gentle and resolute, that had shaken his heart violently and troubled his soul.

Erik wanted to see him again so much. He wanted to understand.

Was there a single chance he might come to this romantic rendezvous?

Hmm... Not sure... He closed his eyes.

The winter sun was caressing him and he was enjoying its sweet warmth like would a fat cat on a grey Parisian roof. He was thinking back to those sapphire-blue eyes, to that blush of innocence on pale cheeks. He had tried to draw that face for a good part of the night, the result was mediocre. He smiled, realistic. That much light and color: it was not, obviously, his domain. He was an artist of shadows.

\- I see my being late did not make you lose your smile!

This voice! Erik jumped and almost tumbled down from his pile of wood, leaping to his feet.

He had come! Charles, finally here, in front of the worksite and its popular hubbub, in a fitted coat and a top hat!

\- Pardon me, have I surprised you? You were undoubtedly not waiting for me anymore, I was delayed by another appointment.

Of course, Erik was not his only priority of the day! He must have many others, more suitable, more important!

\- I had hoped you would come, but I should have expected a person of your ranking would not be on time. It's a social tradition, being late, in your world, isn't it?

He could not help the cutting remark. For an absurd reason, the mere sight of this bourgeois outfit in violent contrast to his own get-up – work pants with suspenders and his old coat patched up at the elbows – had humiliated him.

But the young man did not get flustered by his swipe and took a step toward him.

\- Well, I see that I will have great difficulties to earn your respect. I apologize for my tardiness Erik, it was rude of me.

He smiled at him holding out a gloved hand amicably.

Erik regarded the hand dressed in warm black velvet. His own hands were bare, dirty and cold. He hesitated. The prudishness of the poor, a fear of dirtying. Charles must have noticed it because he took off his glove instantly, took off his hat and held out his white palm again. The movement was more insistent and Erik, getting over his discomfort, finally shook it. It was soft and warm like he had imagined, and firm and comforting like he had hoped. He kept it in his for a few seconds more than decency would have it.

\- I'm the one who should apologize, I don't always have the most poised reactions in your presence, Charles.

The young man blushed and let go of his hand.

\- About yesterday... He started, eyes lowered.

Erik cut him off.

\- Yesterday, I... I acted with very poor... He stammered uncharacteristically. Very poor... huh...

\- … Professionalism?

Erik stared at him, surprised. Before him, Charles' eyes were sparkling, animating even more his smirk. He was visibly trying not to laugh. Erik felt heat flood his cheeks. He smiled in turn, amused at his own embarrassment.

\- Yes, very poor professionalism.

He lifted his beret to run his hand through his hair. This young bourgeois man had a talent for twisting his nerves. And he had to admit it was not that unpleasant.

\- Let us start on fresh basis if you will, and try to forget about class struggles, the both of us. My name is Charles Xavier.

\- Erik Lehnsherr. And I cannot promise you anything, Charles...

The young man burst into laughter.

\- I expect no less from you, my friend!

He really had an answer for everything and, from the top of his mouse's height, did not let himself be intimidated. Erik was charmed, he could not stop himself. There was a challenge in struggling against his attraction, in keeping his cynicism cold in the face of this burning flame. With his confidence back, he took a step toward the Seine's bank and, over his shoulder, told him:

\- Well, do you have some time ahead of you, my Lord? Because I'm priding myself on getting you out of your cozy life!

He had a smile on his face, joyfully insolent. The retort he got back surprised him.

\- What makes you think I live a cozy life?! I could be some fortune seeker, adventurous and... unscrupulous!

Erik turned to him. The young man was holding his gaze, eyes full of contempt, a resilient attitude in Bourgeois attires. A paradox. Yes, he could be so many things, with his wealth and his charisma. So many futures, so many possibilities. And yet... something did not ring true.

The retort was meant to be simply provocative but Erik felt like it resonated strangely. There was bitterness behind the bravado. He stepped closer to him then and, gently, almost tenderly, his fingertips brushed aside a long lock of brown hair falling on furrowed brows. Charles had frozen, letting Erik touch him. He had this confident way to let him do as he pleased, to resist then to bend, that electrified the artist.

Erik let what his instinct was dictating him slip.

\- Adventurous without a doubt, but "unscrupulous"? No... not with eyes such as these...

Charles parted his lips: to catch his breath, to reply? Erik did not give him the time to choose, preferring to break this moment too dangerously intimate for the place they were at.

Around them, Paris called for discovery: the noises of the street, the dry trot of horses, the skidding on the riverbank, the fresh and crisp air rushing into coats, the smokes of coal and vapor escaping from roofs and machineries...

The great breath of the City.

Its momentum of boldness and life.

Erik grabbed Charles' arm.

\- Follow me!

And dragged him in his wake in the twists and turns of construction sites.

_______________

Through the metallic canopy, the December evening tinged in red and golden sparkles the flagstones of the covered passage. It was almost five o'clock and the little stores with vitrines filled with trinkets were gradually closing their wooden shutters.

Erik had first led Charles to the ephemeral little streets of the Seine's worksites. He had shown him the pavilions in the making, the carcasses of sculptures and of buildings erecting their naked frameworks toward the sky. Real giants' skeletons animated by an army of microbes. The City of Light being transformed.

Charles had climbed on piles of bricks, shaken hands of gruffly workmen, laughed with a young Irish man with a voice like a foghorn, amassed mud on his polished shoes and dust all the way to his hair no longer covered by the top hat, long lost by now. It had been forgotten somewhere at the United States pavilion, and left there to its unfortunate fate.

Charles was radiant and enthusiastic, with his air of carefree insolence and his bright eyes. He looked like a charming Parisian urchin. He asked a thousand questions and vibrated with a thirst for seeing and understanding everything.

And Erik, intoxicated by such pure energy, had then led him to the covered alleys of the Bourse neighborhood. He wanted to show him everything: the clustered and dark bookstore where he went in search of inspiration in illustrated books, the store in the corner of the Galerie des Panoramas and of Les Variétés where he bought his engraving tools.

The young Bourgeois man had been fascinated to learn how were prepared copper plates and woodcuts. He had made Erik detail everything, inviting him to show him inks and damp sheets, chisels and stamps, mimicking gestures to try to get the hang of it. The brave craftsman managing the shop had willingly taken out various tools and had let Erik demonstrate, too happy to get a bit of life in his store. And who could resist Charles' enthusiasm? Such liveliness emanated from him, such light that everyone would feel inclined, without realizing it, to the same joie de vivre.

Then, they had wandered aimlessly, not wanting to go their separate ways, delaying nightfall which would be signaling the end of this delightful afternoon.

Forgetting about their social differences, Erik had opened up little by little. Along their way, he had unveiled images of his world and had talked openly about his everyday life, and a bit about his past: about Italy with its great lemon trees orchards, about the immigrants' America, about his experiences of sunny days to years of misery. He had let the words escape without fear, Charles had him confess everything with a single look, a single smile.

He was listening to him attentively now, elbows on the edge of the small round table of the Café they had eventually stopped at, after crossing through Paris. Around them, patrons were discussing around glasses of wine. Some were smoking the pipe and the smell of tobacco and of reheated soup from the kitchen hanged heavy in the room. Faded paintings were hidden by big colored posters praising shows of the moment. The place was quiet and friendly, giving rise to confidence.

Erik had never confided so much before, in a near-stranger at that! But in these eyes of sky's slivers, he could only drown his mistrust and submerge his doubts. One felt like confessing before this gaze.

The sun had disappeared. The evening ended and finished covering the walls in shadows. Erik looked in his pockets for the few coins to cover the price of his coffee. He found none and blushed in shame. But Charles had already put a small silver coin of one Franc on the table.

Erik reacted instantly.

\- This is way too much! And you will not pay for me!

Why did he have to feel this offended when the matter of wealth came between them?

\- Come now, Erik. Do not make a mountain out of a molehill, I'm paying this time around and you will offer me the next one.

"The next one", there would be a next time then. He stood up smiling, appeased as quickly as he had lost his temper.

\- Yes, it's a deal then. I will not be in your debt for long, I promise you.

They retrieved their coats from the entrance's pegs then got out in the covered alley. Charles continued:

\- You are not. It is rather I who is indebted to you, you made me discover so many things.

\- I have the feeling that I mostly ranted for hours. Your head must be stuffed by now.

\- Absolutely not. You know... I come from a world where people listen to the sound of their own voices but they don't have much to say.

Erik smiled at this remark full of common sense.

As the afternoon went by, he had ended up forgetting that Charles came from a background where pretense and pettiness were abundant. He had considered him an equal, and, bit by bit, the hint of a friendship made of complicity and veiled seduction was born.

They left the Café, and sank in the Parisian streets.

The night had well and truly fallen and the gas streetlights were lighting up progressively, giving an intimate atmosphere to the city. Mysterious.

\- May I see you home? Gallantly offered the artist.

\- Well, it's not really close by, I... I will probably take a fiacre back.

He had lowered his eyes, Erik could read the embarrassment on his face about showing he had the means to pay for a ride back home while his friend would return back to his flat on foot.

\- Let me at least walk you to an avenue where you can find your fiacre.

He wanted to accompany him for a few meters more, he wanted to keep guiding him in the maze of streets, he even wanted, ingenuously, to be able to take his hand, to touch him. A few minutes more of him. He was suddenly hungry for it even though they had spent several hours together. Hours during which he had stifled his desire and been swept up by their gentle budding friendship. And now, moments away from losing him, there was a desperation to steal away a little more of him.

\- Very well, after you.

They walked in silence, wrapped in the cold December night. Their breaths were forming a white mist and the sound of their steps was clacking on the pavement. Erik made them cross the dark streets and slowed their already winding path with a few detours. He led them to the galleries of the Palais Royal.

Charles was walking alongside him. A confident and reassuring presence.

A few more steps and they would be in the blaring avenue de l'Opéra, a few more steps and he would leave Charles to the mass of the boulevards.

The archways of the Palais Royal's stores were lit parsimoniously. Gaslights punctuated one pillar in four, creating halos of yellowish light on the doorsteps' grey flagstones and reflecting ghostly shadows on the window-shops framed in lacquer wood.

The stores were closed for the day but another trade would awaken shortly. The neighborhood's prostitutes had taken this garden, adorning the center of this large sheltered courtyard, as their favorite soliciting ground. Small furtive noises, creased fabrics, snickers were already reaching the ears of the two men. These ladies were beginning their clandestine rendezvous. The place oozed a muddled eroticism, forbidden, but known by all.

A strange tension weighed down their steps. They only had a few moments left before separating and both of them felt this stormy atmosphere, this need, already, that would devour them.

It was Charles who first broke the heavy silence.

\- I will see you again, won't I?

He had stopped under one of the illuminated pillar. The halo fell on him like a stage light on a tragedian during a dramatic last act. His eyes shone with a particular brightness. Desperate. Hypnotizing. Erik sighed and replied in a resigned tone:

\- Reason would want me to say no.

\- Why?!

A word, a question he had ripped from his throat.

Erik felt his heart tighten cruelly. He did not want to answer.

\- You very well know why.

\- No, I don't. Explain it to me.

He leaned against the pillar, arms crossed over his chest with his insolent attitude suiting him so well. Erik shouldn't have been tempted this much, he did not have the right to be. And yet, he came closer, instinctively attracted to this star, to this fire emanating of a young man... met the day before and by whom his whole body was possessed.

\- Charles... You... Forgive me... You... You shouldn't even ask me this.

He lowered his eyes and looked at his hands, covered in ink stains, worker hands, poor man's hands.

Other hands came grabbing his, gently and pulling him closer, under the shaky light of the gas lamp. A soft voice, a whisper.

\- Erik, no, I should not... I know this... I know this, but I do not want to... to be reasonable. Not with you. Not tonight...

And just like that, with a simple move of exquisite grace, by sliding his hand on his nape, Charles attracted Erik to him, to his body, to his lips. There, reddened by the cold, tempting, inviting him, imploring him to come and claim them.

The contact of this warm hand on his skin electrified his whole spine, this breath so close and this gaze, Erik felt inebriated. He could not resist, he did not want to be... reasonable... anymore.

He kissed him. There, between the rustles of clandestine embraces, there, a few steps away from the avenues of high society.

There, he kissed him passionately, tasting his mouth, learning the softness of his lips, clutching his waist.

A moan of pleasure escaped Charles who was now embracing him unrestrainedly. He almost let himself be lifted on tip-toe, his arms around Erik's neck, threading his fingers through his hair, getting lost in him, hungry for his warmth.

The latter, taking advantage of Charles' slightly parted lips, slipped his tongue between them, making him discover a more intimate caress, deeper. He could not remember having one day kissed like this, for his first kiss. He had never fell this deeply and this quickly for anybody.

Their breaths mingled, panting, not wanting to surrender, each of them bending and dominating in turns this sensuous duel.

Eventually, out of breath, his mind buzzing, Erik broke this passionate kiss and buried his face in Charles' brown locks. In his arms, the artist felt like he was reaching a form of grace, a state close to madness. He wanted to immerse himself in his smell, to burn all of these sensations forever in his memory.

He did not want to leave him, to lose him. He could have wept. He was lost.

Long seconds went by during which he could only hear the anarchic beatings of both their hearts.

\- When... When can I see you again?

Charles' voice was full of hope. It was much more than a question.

A prayer.

Erik should have turned him down but he could not. It was as if his mind didn't belong to him anymore. Nothing, no reason, no prudence, no morality, no laws, no interdictions; there was nothing left. His heart was a huge blank page on which every creative possibility was conceivable. For the young artist, it was a sensation as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

He breathed his answer in his ear...

\- Soon, I promise you, soon...

… and begged fate to spare them both.

 

 

Enregistrer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is a third chapter! How did you find this first kiss? Did you like it?  
> Once again a big thanks for my first beta: Amy with whom I learned a lot of things (especially about typography). And this chapter is now newly translated by Autheane, her work on this fic is piece of art.
> 
> And for my adorable history geeks :  
> \- A map of the Universal Exhibition (you can find the German's Pavilion and the USA's one) : https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:P._Bineteau,_Exposition_universelle_de_1900_-_plan_g%C3%A9n%C3%A9ral.jpg  
> -The old engraving art shop exist really in Paris (in french sorry) : https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graveur_Stern  
> -The Palais-Royal where "Along the galeries, ladies of the night lingered,": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palais-Royal


	4. We'll try.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles return to his cold life, away from Erik's lips.

 

No one had awaited him for dinner.

That was the first thing Charles thought when he walked through the huge gate of the rich manor of the _Avenue de Passy_.

Everyone had probably eaten by 7 pm sharp, as was custom, and no one had been concerned about the eldest son. Nobody here could imagine, savoring their millimetric and invigorating supper served by white gloved servants, that at the same moment, he was discovering the pleasure of being kissed with desire, greed and even passion by a _man_. An artist and a bohemian at that!

It was pure madness!

Charles could not even manage to assimilate everything that had happened to him during the day.

His sudden resolution to finally join Erik, while, with his sister and Hank, they had decided to attend the Panorama show. This decision, he had taken it upon seeing the worksites of the exposition; the large metallic poles seemed to beckon to him, to tempt him, so close, a few steps away, along the Seine.

He had entrusted his sister to Hank, both young people had looked delighted. He had then jumped in a fiacre to reach the Germany's pavilion as fast as possible, praying that Erik had waited for him, praying that this intriguing adventure was not a bad joke.

What could have crossed his mind then? The curiosity of a young bourgeois? A simple whim?  
 No, a need! A need to feel free, to join this fascinating stranger who had given him a rendezvous by slipping a note in his coat like would the lovers of old-fashioned romance novels. A need to quench the thirst that this man had kindled within him. This new desire... New or?... Had it not always been there? In the shadows of his heart…

What had followed?... What had followed had felt like a novel or a dream. He did not really know anymore. These hours had been the most troubling, the most memorable, the happiest in all his life.

Erik was a young attractive man, with a sharp intelligence and incisive humor. He was passionate, enthralling. Raging against society and its injustice, but he could nevertheless see its beauty everywhere: in craftsmen's hands, in the smiles of passing _grisettes_ , in the progress of technics.

He had dragged him down extraordinary places, saturated with life, included ones Charles barely suspected the existence of. He had confided his hopes to him, a few of his wounds with refreshing honesty. Hours had flown by. And... Finally... Charles could not stop thinking back to that kiss, to Erik's hands, to his lips, to their taste... To his promise of meeting him again. How, when, he did not know!

Without any surprise, the half hour spent in the fiacre bringing him back home had done nothing to calm his excited state. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream, dozens of emotions going through him. They were opening windows in his mind in violent storms, knocking and destroying everything, leaving nothing but euphoric chaos.

Euphoria of freedom.

 _Erik_.

That man was the spark of chaos. A purifying chaos in which he wanted to throw himself.

Charles walked into the dining room. The table had been cleared and the lights of the great crystal chandelier extinguished. He did not go through the smocking room, not wanting to risk running into his stepfather, and instead went down to the kitchen in search of something to eat. His last real meal dated back to the day before and, despite his immense restlessness, he was ravenous. He rapidly ate a few sweet biscuits left safely in the panetière and greedily swallowed a jar of pears in syrup.

He then climbed the staircase and headed for his room. It was situated in the west wing, which also included Kurt's study and his bedroom. His late mother and his sister's rooms were situated in the east wing, the few servants lived in the attic.

He took off his shoes before walking through the corridor. Light was filtering through the office's door and he did not want to be lectured about his late return.

Unfortunately, a few minutes only after entering his bedroom, he heard his stepfather's heavy steps in the room next to his.

A chair being pushed back, a growl, the noise of the handle being abused. The man did not take more than a few seconds to open Charles' bedroom door, not even knocking.

The young man was taking off his jacket. He was clad in shirtsleeves and barefoot. Kurt scanned him from head to toe, lingering over his pants quite covered in dust. He cracked his jaw and threw a despising look at his stepson. The latter, still galvanized by his afternoon, did not lower his eyes.

-Good evening Kurt.

-Where were you? He barked.

-I had a friend to see. Answered Charles resuming his undressing.

He was unbuttoning his suspenders that he had slid oved his shoulders. Kurt was fulminating at this indifferent attitude. Besides the fact that he hated being ignored, it reminded him too much that he almost had no more power over his stepson. Almost...

-Your sister came back home alone well after four.

His voice was dull, very low, not wanting to be the one losing his temper, attempting to be the master of this squabble only he wanted to provoke.

-She was not alone, Doctor McCoy was accompanying her. Retorted Charles, still as calm.

He trusted his friend Hank completely; he had assuredly done things according the strict rules of etiquette. He finally turned to Kurt and looked at him straight in the eye. Both men gauged one another. Kurt walked several steps forward. Reaching the young man, he extended his hand to grab disdainfully at the lapel of his shirt. At this gesture, Charles had almost shrunken back, instinctively, for fear of a bad blow.  But he had not been hit since he had turned twenty-one.... For almost eight months now. Therefore, he remained impassive, inhaling slowly, letting Kurt Marko examine traces of dust and ink on the fabric.

-Pfff, you look like a street rat!

He shoved him away half-heartedly with a move falsely weary.

-No dignity, no charisma, nothing... I will never get anything out of you. At least your sister is sufficiently decorative to find a pimp.

Charles clenched his fists.

-A husband, you mean! Raven will marry a man who will love her and who will get her away from this prison!

Kurt sneered.

-"This prison", if you say so! It seems to me that you have room and board. I even pay for your clothes, although, I see that you do not make a strong case for them. Be happy with your lot. A pipsqueak like you, alone, in the streets of Paris? I would not give much for your skin! You wouldn't have much to earn your keep. Beg for charity maybe or... - His face broke into a cruel smile - … Worse...

Charles felt his stomach turn.

-You are repulsive. He whispered backing away, unable to stay less than a meter away from Kurt. He was sick of having to share the same roof as him, of having to be subjected to insults now that the blows had stopped raining.

-Hmm hmm, so prudish and fragile... A real maiden!

-Get out of my room!

Kurt raised an eyebrow then burst out laughing. He walked to the door, and before leaving, he threw in a satisfied tone: 

-What an ungrateful person you are, and to say that I had great news to share with you! One of my closest associate has asked for your sister's hand this afternoon!

Charles froze.

-What?! Who?!

Kurt let two long seconds go by, amused by the suspense around his answer and by his stepson's stunned eyes.

-Hmm, you probably do not know him. Mister Shaw, Sebastian Shaw. A very handsome man, in his fifties, clever and rich. He's got a firm hand, he will know how to handle her. You should be delighted.

He finally crossed the threshold of the door and shot with a final laugh:

-Oh and, since you weren't there, I gave him my agreement in principle!

Charles leaped after him.

-You have no right! Raven is under MY responsibility!

He would have knocked him out with his bare hands but Kurt, still laughing, slammed his bedroom door in his face. Absolutely furious, the young man punched on the wooden frame. He swallowed back down the torrent of invectives he wanted to shout at his stepfather. Why? Why did he spend his time torturing him? He was exhausted of these schemes, of this perpetual domestic guerrilla. He no longer had the strength to cry. He wanted to flee, to leave everything, live out of nothing, live freely...

_Erik..._

He sighed, resigned.

Erik was just a dream.

He finished undressing and cleaned himself up summarily in the small tub located in his bathroom.

His right hand was hurting, it had already started to turn blue after the violent punch he had given against the door. He would have to bandage it tomorrow and apply one of the arnica balms Hank had made for him. For the time being, he let it soak for a few minutes in cold water.

In his bedroom, his fireplace was giving off warm light. The room, furnished with numerous shelves littered with books remained, thorough the year, at a pleasant temperature. He had room and board, for his sister and him, as well as relative comfort, at least of the material kind. Until then, it had been all that mattered, but now that he was an adult and that Raven was of age of being married, Kurt's pressure had escalated. He wanted to see them disappear from his life as soon as possible, even if it meant selling the young girl to the highest bidder and throw Charles out on the streets. Starting tomorrow, he would have to take up arms again to pull his sister out of the claws of that dubious suitor.

He had only tonight to rest before facing the next day. 

Pulling on his nightshirt, the fabric caressed his bare skin. 

He could not help thinking about other caresses. About hands, impatient, which had roamed over him a few hours prior. They had left a sensation of intense heat on his waist, his back, his buttocks, everywhere they had dared to hold onto. He had felt them burning, despite the bitter cold, despite the barrier of his clothes.

Charles stretched out on his bed and let his mind wander. Progressively, the house, the room, the bed, the sheets disappeared; there were only sensations left behind closed eyelids. Ghosts of caresses he played at believing real, sensual lies he offered to himself for a moment.

He was imagining Erik's hands, artist's hands, long fingers discovering his skin, skimming down along his chest, his groin, awakening his senses, making him forget everything, leaving only this sensation of being desired beyond morality, beyond what was allowed. Never had a man ever touched him this way. Never had he thought it could affect him this much, could awaken this hunger for pleasure within him, this visceral need to offer himself to another.

_Not "another". Him. Just him._

Desire filled him gradually, deliciously, flowing through his veins, making him shiver when, with his hand, he spread his legs.

He wanted to believe it was Erik's hand gliding over his hardness. Erik who was taking him slowly in hand to caress him in long lascivious strokes, building his pleasure slowly, stronger, faster, careening him over the edge.

Charles lost control and let his orgasm overwhelm him and flow against his belly.

But his rapture was immediately torn by sharp pain.

By pressing his hand against his mouth to prevent from moaning, he had awakened the pain in his bruised hand.

_Kurt..._

He felt incredibly dirty then, half naked in this room only a few meters away from his stepfather's. Kurt was always there to shatter his dreams, to eradicate his hopes. At the sight of his own semen smeared over him, proof of his forbidden desires, he stifled a sob. An atrocious bitterness overwhelmed him, crushing his heart in the process. He would never have the right to this. Some respite, just this once!

Erik was only a dream. Inaccessible.

 

____________

 

A too firm handshake, a false smile with sharp and hard angles, an insipid gaze, cold and disturbing...

Charles had just met Sebastian Shaw.

Oh, the man certainly exuded health and wealth.

But, he had this unpleasant self-important air appertaining to rudeness and a sense of irony often hurtful and rarely funny.

He was a conqueror and a traveler.

He was back from America where he had made a fortune for himself in the Industry but he was originated from Eastern Europe. Perhaps Prussian, he had remained evasive on the topic. In these revanchist days, he was probably right to be cautious.

The man had turned up in the morning, with the uncouthness of not informing them of his venue and had asked to meet Charles and his sister, to begin courting the young lady at the earliest.

Charles had been tempted to leave him on the doorstep and to let him stew for several hours, but Shaw had been particularly odious to Armando, their coachman and occasionally footman.

The poor man, on the pretext of his skin color from his Creole origins, had been insulted and threatened if he did not let him enter immediately.

Shaw had softened in front of Charles, taking on the air of a patient predator, confident, waiting for his prey, scared to death and finally submissive, to fall into his maw.

But the young man had seen worse and remained impassive in front of the intimidating arriviste. Raven, for her part, deigned to finally come down to the parlor well after an hour of wait and scrupulously sported a disdainful pout which would have made their late mother proud. She did not utter a word and Shaw got away with no more than talking to Charles.

When the suitor left, she went up like a fury in her room, not even giving time to her brother to explain he had nothing to do with this unpleasant meeting.

Of course, he wanted her to wed a rich suitor, but never would he have chosen a person as repulsive as that Sebastian Shaw.

Unfortunately, the fact was that, in a Paris rotten with rumors, it was very risky to turn down too harshly a man like him. With his network, his connections, he could sully the young lady's reputation, pretend he had been rejected for dubious reasons. Charles had then played for time, reserving his answer while praying with all his heart for Raven to find true love at the latest during the New Year ball.

He had been coldly polite toward Shaw, not refusing explicitly his proposal but not encouraging anything either. His young sister had, without a doubt, taken this as a betrayal on his part. He would have to talk to her about it as soon as possible.

But he did not even know how to broach the topic. Raven was particularly irritable as of late. They had trouble understanding each other now, when they had been so close as children. Charles knew she was bright and smart, he didn't doubt she would achieve great things but, in order to do this, she had to find a husband. Indeed, only a spouse would free her from the yoke of their stepfather and would give her the independence she yearned so strongly for.

He wanted to protect her and for her to be happy.

But maybe these two wishes were contradictory...

He went up to his room, already weary even though the day was only half gone.

He had to write down a note to Hank McCoy for the young doctor to prepare a bit of his Arnica balm. He didn't have enough left and the phalanx of his right hand, that he had hidden under a clumsy bandage, were way too blue to ignore their healing.

 

___________

 

Surprisingly, McCoy was announced at 2 PM at the Xavier-Marko mansion.

Charles did not remember asking him to come by! But it was a nice surprise and he welcomed his friend directly in the main hall.

Even more surprising, was when Charles had thanked him warmly for coming this quickly to heal him, Hank had looked completely lost. He looked at the hand Charles was holding out with great embarrassment.

-But, how did you do this? The hematoma is extensive, you need some ointment!

His friend seemed ingenuously caught off guard and Charles began to answer, stammering.

-.. Yes, indeed, this is the problem and huh... This is why...

He was interrupted.

-Hank, here you are! Oh, I'm delighted that you could free some of your precious time for me!

Raven had just appeared at the top of the staircase followed by Miss Moira MacTaggert, her private tutor, who was visibly holding back a remark to the young woman for her too familiar tone.

This barely thirty years old young maid with brown eyes full of authority wasn't an atrociously rigorous chaperone. But she knew how to command respect of her pupil by dosing out fairly learning periods and moments of feminine complicity. Charles held her in high regards for having learned to act as an older sister and almost a mother for Raven, delivering advices only another woman could share. And it had borne fruits if only judging by his sister's outfit for the day. 

She was wearing a very simple dress of blue-purple velvet buttoned on the front. Her blond curls were severely braided in a bun held by a large crimson ribbon. She was wearing black gloves and assorted high boots. She looked like a lady. Only her bright teenage smile was betraying her seventeen years.

-Miss Raven, I'm pleased to have the chance to share another afternoon with you so soon... This idea of visiting the Institute for Deaf Youths was excellent and I... Huh, I mean we...

Charles stared in amazement and threw a questioning look at Moira.

The young doctor seemed to lose a bit his composure faced with his friend's surprised air and could not finish his sentence. Raven wanted to intervene but it was the tutor who continued in a calm tone.

-Yesterday afternoon, the young Miss had suggested we accompany Doctor McCoy during his visits with the hospice patients but it seemed to me the privacy of those mature men was no sight for a young lady...

Raven could not refrain from cutting her off to continue the explanation.

-And then I asked if we could go look at the new installments of that modern establishment; the one you told me about Charles, where the deaf-mute children are taught with the last methods and... - She turned sparkling eyes to the young doctor who was playing nervously with his hat – Hank accepted...

Faced with such mischievous seduction, McCoy didn't know what to answer. He stammered in a timid voice:

-But I would not want to thwart your plans for this afternoon, Charles. I was thinking that... At least, I thought that if you agreed and most importantly were informed, yes informed, well I mean, I would not have accepted if...

Charles came to his friend's aid.

-Forgive me. Yes, of course, go ahead. I was a little surprised. My sister is safe with you my friend, and I suppose, as is appropriate, Miss MacTaggert will go with you?

Raven threw him a tense smile and answered a bit curtly:

-Yes, of course. I am a "proper lady".

She walked past him to get to the entryway closet where were put away coats, pelisses and hats on pegs and shelves made of simple wood. Moira followed her and nodded comfortingly at Charles. He should not worry, the tutor would look after his sister. McCoy stood there, completely at loss in the face of the heated exchange between the siblings.

Charles shrugged and decided to let the cutting remark slide, after all, the young lady had had a rough morning. He turned to his doctor friend.

-Excuse me, Hank, can I simply ask for a quick advice? He showed his hand to him. To ease the pain, if you could tell me...

-Oh yes, sorry, yes. Forgive me, can I?... Well... He examined the hand Charles was holding out to him and bended the phalanx gently. Charles winced slightly.

-Does it hurt you too badly?

-No, no. It's a bit swollen but nothing is broken I think.

-I don't think so either. Well... to resorb the hematoma, the most effective way is to make a chamomile decoction and to apply it for thirty minutes to your hand. Do this twice a day at least and it should remove all traces of this huh... injury. You have not told me how you came to get this injury?

Charles smiled at the clumsy concern of his friend. He did not have to evade the question...

-Well, I'm ready, we can be on our way. Declared his sister.

She was now warmly wrapped up in a cape lined with black velvet and clasped with big brandenburgs on her shoulders. A small fur wide-brimmed hat adorned her hair, she looked like a young tsarina.

-It's settled then Charles, we're abandoning you for a few hours. She said coming to gently kiss his cheek. I'll see you tonight.

Charles smiled at this childish habit. For him, she will always remain his dear baby sister.

-Yes, see you tonight. Make sure not to get back after 4 pm, you know how much Kurt hates it.

-.. Yes, I will. By the way, he will not be here tonight, not tomorrow either, Armando told me he will only be back by Sunday morning, on the 24th.

Charles swallowed back a bitter remark. Their stepfather did not even deign to be there to help organize the meals of the Eve and Christmas. He appreciated though, even more than his stepson, good food and splendor of the holidays. The Bourgeois man had no doubt a few shady businesses to settle or he was with one of his mistresses. Charles managed to plaster a faint smile on his face.

-Very well, I will keep it in mind. Do not get back home too late all the same. It would worry me cruelly.

-Promise! Good afternoon!

-Same goes for you three.

He remained a few seconds on the doorstep to watch them climb in the fiacre loaned by Hank.

 _If I become this sad watching her go spend a few hours in the company of my dearest friend, what will it be when she will definitively leave to live with her husband._ He thought somberly closing the door behind him.

 

______________

 

The next morning, upon awakening, Charles examined his hand. It had lost some of its blue-black hue to take on a green-yellow accent. Hank's recipe was effective. Moreover, the young man had been scrupulously punctual: Raven and her tutor had come back home precisely at a quarter to four.  

The doctor had been persuaded to stay for supper and the joyously exalted mood of both young women in the face of the progress of science had embellished the evening. The absence of Kurt Marko in the mansion had made the atmosphere more serene and pleasant.

It was almost ten this Saturday morning and Charles was checking in with the cook how well the progress of the preparations was going for next day's festivities. In the huge kitchen, located in the semi-basement of their mansion, were stored victuals almost to the ceiling. Purchases of fresh produces had been made at dawn to the great markets in the center of Paris. A beautiful capon to pluck and stuff was now sitting on the center of the counter. There would also be terrines and vegetables in sauce and, of course, the succession of traditional desserts. Way too much for the number of guests expected around the table.     

The Xaviers did not have any family in France and, since Sharon’s second marriage , the rare English cousins had crossed this bastardized branch out of their genealogical tree.

Kurt, this year, had not succeeded to make his brothers and their spouses come from Italy. _This will have the merit of sparing me from their thundering quarrels and slamming doors_ , thought Charles with some good mood. It would be the three of them only and, with luck, the siblings would have the opportunity to finish the desserts in the company of the servants in the kitchen. The atmosphere was always more pleasant and almost family like here.

Charles had just gotten back up in the living room when one of their maids brought him a note that she presented on a small silver platter.

-I was asked to hand this to you personally.

He thanked her and looked at the letter with curiosity.

It was not a business card, as usually done in high society , it was not even the elegant cream or pastel tinted writing paper. It looked more like a sheet of paper taken from a small sketchbook that the sender would have simply folded in two. There was an ink stain in one of the corners.

Some ink left there, like a signature by artist’s fingers.

Charles stopped breathing for a moment. He was staring at the folded paper with sudden fascination.

His heart started pounding violently in his chest.

He had just realized this note could come from one person only.

His hands shook when he unfolded the message.

He immediately recognized the neat and sharp handwriting.

Heat flooded his cheeks when it revealed these few mysterious words:

_7 pm tonight, Montmartre welcomes bohemians between Heaven and Hell._

_E._

 

 

 

 

Enregistrer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amy, my first beta, made a great work with this chapter. And now you can read the new version of this translation made by Autheane. The more the story goes, the more the text is long and complex so thanks to her patience ! 
> 
> I hope you like this small pause in Erik and Charles building relationship. Soon they'll be reunited again.  
> Comments and questions are welcome.  
> An happy day with your loved ones for you all.
> 
> Here the little notes :  
> \- a closed "frog" is an ornemental braiding for dress : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frog_(fastening)  
> -a "grisette" is a french young working class woman : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grisette_(person)  
> -the cure for light hematoma with chamomile is an old european recipe, now we use arnica : http://learningherbs.com/remedies-recipes/arnica-ointment/  
> -The deaf children institution in Paris (in french) : http://www.injs-paris.fr/sites/www.injs-paris.fr/files/linjs_de_paris_-historique.pdf  
> -History of french domestic servants (in french) : http://personneldemaison.free.fr/ and a more general version in english : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domestic_worker


	5. Between Hell and Heaven.

 

_Montmartre, between Heaven and Hell._

The phrase wascrypticfor the bourgeois people from opulent-lookingstreets. You had to have a few connections in the world of artists, drunkards, or strumpets to follow this paper chase. You had to be ready to compromise and corrupt yourself, to enter a forbidden world to reach this point.

"There" was the 53 of the _Avenue de Clichy_. An innocent entrance stuck between the gaping opening of the Hell's Cabaret and the stucco meringues of the Heaven's Cabaret.

Thus, Erik was standingin between, on the doorstepof the Purgatory in a way.

He smiled bitterly to himself.

One more irony.

Anyone would think he absolutely wanted to punish himself for something. It seemed guilt was eating away at him so much, thathe could not prevent himself from putting difficulties in his path.

Why had he wanted to meet Charles in such a place?

It was a neighborhood of debauchery and coarse pleasures, of crude jokes and bawdy songs. People played to be scared inillusion'stheatres with cheap effects where, for a few more coins, the coquettish dancer would end up on your lap.

Why absolutely want to take Charles here?

To see him sully himself? To see him become dull in his eyes, lose this spark of innocence which fascinated him so much? This light Charles should not have possessed, not so beautiful, not so bright! This contradiction of purity in a young bourgeois man raised in the hideous luxury of society gatherings.

Did Erik want to see him become corrupt, see him laugh at salacious sallies of singers, drink greedily bad wines, feel cheap girls up? Break once and for all this mask of coyness and insolence, denounce this act of sensual candor Charles had played for him, rip off this improbable purity of the soul!

… Understand and allow himself to believe in the impossible feeling Erik had felt for the first time of his life while kissing Charles. A hope now branded on his soul. One of finally being accepted, for who he was. Accepted and... Erik did not want to think about it anymore. He had to admit that all of this was frightening him.

For the last two days, he no longer recognized himself. His emotions were highly strung.

Erik took in a large gulp of fresh air. He had no answer to offer, a labyrinth of questions to ask and more and more difficulty to not lose himself.

A nearby bell towerstruck 7 PM in such drawling bangs they were almost silent. Erik exhaled slowly to calm his nerves. Night was already upon them and the sky was heavy with rain. But water had not yet fallen. Large clouds had already veiled the sun for all of afternoon and now the moon, already feeble in its waning crescent, was not illuminating much.

Streetlights and the garish front windows adorned with huge painted bulbs gave to the street a sordid atmosphere of a funfair.

Erik started to watch the fiacres and elegant horseshoe crews who were dropping off the bourgeois crowd on the sidewalks of the _Avenue de Clichy_. And Bourgeois people, there was, a lot even! Avid of debauchery, searching, in the neighborhoods of parties and cabarets, for thrills that their mundane lives did not offer them. Here they were, all bundled up in their tail-coats and top-hats, accompanied by beautiful women way too painted and feathery to be considered ladies. A society of appearance and false morality, where you played at touching, for one evening, exoticism of sin, the pseudo-freedom of the poor before getting back to a well-kept home.

From which carriage Charles would get out?

How would he look?

That of the dandy he could see there, ten paces from him, who had just leapt nimbly on the pavement? With his pocket watch of which the chain dangled from the pocket of his waistcoat, with his twirling cane and his curly mustache? And those shoes, they shone so much they had to...

Someone coughed discreetly next to him, interrupting his thoughts. He turned to the nuisance.

-Good evening Erik.

Erik swallowed. His heart had just stopped beating and he had trouble getting it going again.

The young man standing before him had hidden his brown locks under a grey cap and his white hands were shoved deeply in the large pockets of coarse canvas work trousers. An ecru cotton shirt, a wool cardigan a bit too long and worker shoes perfected this masterpiece of a disguise. Even the charming freckles, covering his nose reddened by the cold, seemed to have been placed there to stick even more to the role.

Under the rags of the most adorable of Parisian urchins was the one he was waiting for with all his heart: Charles.

The artist was now gaping like the deader of all the Seine's fishes. Faced with his astonishment approaching stupefaction, Charles, maybe believing he had offended him, started stammering an explanation:

-I should not have worn this, you... you must believe I'm trying to ape your world and I... it was not my intention, I just wanted you... to see me as your equal, for you not to see me as some kind of monster swollen with vanity out of the limbos of the devilish bourgeoisie anymore. Well... - He smiled throwing a glance at the Hell's Cabaret's facade opening on an enormous face of a ludicrous Satan – Well, if I may say so.

His lower lip disappeared under small white teeth, he was chewing on it nervously and for Erik, it was the coup-de grace.

-You're perfect.

This comment came to him so spontaneously, he was surprised to hear himself say it.

Charles was looking at him with big amazed eyes, then his face came to life with a large smile. He breathed a sigh of relief half laughing.

-I was so anxious, I'm sorry, it's stupid. Oh, you have no idea. I did not want to disappoint you. And this message! Erik, you could not have done more mysterious!

His enthusiasm had returned, he grabbed the arm of the artist spiritedly.

-So now, tell me Mister Bohemian: toward which unknown shores will you lead me tonight?

He contemplated first the facade of the Heaven's Cabaret, his beautiful clear eyes shining in the light of the big yellow lightbulbs falling from the outrageously rococo sign.

 _Forgive me Charles... You're an angel and I want to pull you in Hell. I'm the monster..._ Thought Erik, dragging him to the maw of the rubbishy devil.

 

____________________

 

A beautiful she-devil had shown them in. With eyes heavy with very black make-up and a haughty attitude, she was named Angel. Charles had heard Erik thank her by calling her by her first name. She was a waitress, a dancer, perhaps more and had been working here for the last two months. Erik explained to him when they passed under the heavy red curtain isolating the small lobby from the great room.

Upon entering, he could not distinguish much. Then his eyes grew accustomed to the dark and he scanned the decor in details. Everything was made out of papier-mâché and plaster; gargoyles and little devils animated the walls giving a rough illusion of a grotto of horrors. He had been surprised when Erik had slipped his hand on the small of his back to guide him nonchalantly in one of the corners of the room. He had feared this gesture would draw malicious attentions to them. But there were so many people, noise, and so little light, it would have been rather surprising if it was the case.

For that matter, they could not, at first, sit and remained with a whole group of costumers waiting for some places to be vacated. The wait was not unpleasant. The compact crowd gave them the excuse of being pressed against one another, and, in the semi-darkness of the room, their hands could play at brushing each other. Charles felt Erik slide his thumb along the inside of his wrist, softly, until he reachedthe hollow of his palm which he massaged for a long time. The sensation was troubling, a kind of sham of a more intimate caress awakening his spirit and nerves dangerously.

A very sweet torture.

When they finally could sit, Charles hastened to cross his legs on the beginning of an erection he could no longer conceal.  

This first experience in the Paris of Boheme was going to be a true expedition in terra incognita. It was undeniably frightening but fiendishly exciting.

He smiled thinking back to all the trouble he went through to find this meeting place and to convince Armando to lend him some clothes without explaining to him why he needed them.

He adjusted his suspenders to pull up these way too long pants despite the two hems they had sewn at the bottom of the legs. Then, for the same reasons, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, uncovering his forearms, a bit in the style of the workers he had seen on the construction sites of the Exposition.

Looking back up at Erik, he noted this one observing him with intensity. He sent him back an amused and questioning look. Then, the artist turned suddenly his attention to the stage where was performed an absurd pantomime where two little devils were chasing a vampire woman.

Charles was in no way interested in such shows. He preferred to observe his guide for the night: the line of his neck, the base of his jaw and the shape of his closed lips. Erik was a very handsome man, thin and muscled, with a feline grace. He had this magnetic charm which never ceased to trouble the young bourgeois man.

But tonight, noticed Charles, the artist seemed strangely anxious, ill at ease, tensed even.

Charles wondered if it was his fault.

He might not have the correct attitude? He then endeavored to study the crowd of the cabaret to learn how to behave accurately.

For example, the beautiful Angel who was moving between the tables.

She was not really smiling, or with a false and haughty pout. This gave him countenance, an aristocratic disdain which hit its mark on the costumers already intoxicated by the vapors of alcohol radiating in the room.

People were pressing at ten around very small tables in this dark room with the décor of a grotto of debauchery. Successions of short representations, illusions and smoke effects, alternated with lascivious dances in which the waitresses lent themselves. Angel was currently on stage, unveiling her pretty curves corseted in black and a flimsy petticoat she was twirling around easily, using it as two wings and unveiling sometimes up to her thigh. The costumers whistled and laughed, they drank also a lot. The air was heavy with the smells of alcohol and oil lamps. It was almost hot in the midst of all this amassed crowd in such a small space.

Directly to their right was reunited a group of bragging artists, one of whom, vaguely poet, declaimed ill-formed lines each time he took a mouthful of absinth. He turned regularly toward Charles an intent look with a contemptuous smile while ostensibly wetting his lips with his tongue. Charles pretended not to notice him.

Eventually, all this nightlife appeared passably strange to him, a bit exotic and globally unpleasant.

Actually, it reminded him of his own world; both here and there, everything was a matter of appearance and complacency. People spoke loudly and wanted to be seen, played to provokeand be scared but it was not authentic. Nor the talent of these pseudo-artists, nor the jewelry of these decrepit courtesans, nor the grimaces of the cheap devils or Angel's burning glances; nothing was true. It was a shapeless mass of people who played to forget their real life was nothing exalting by giving themselves airs of inspired and rebel bohemians for one night.

With his so intense and profound grey eyes, his mind sharp like a blade and his so bold ideals, Erik had nothing to do with this world. Something was not right in this soiree.

A heavy hand suddenly pressing on his shoulder startled him.

Not wanting to play the dainty one, Charles turned calmly to the man standing behind him.

It was the poet from the table next to theirs who was now bending down to whisper in his ear. His damp breath running down Charles’ skin, making him shiver from revulsion.

-Tell me, sweetie, you'd like to find a quiet alley with me so you can taste my quill a little? You've got a mouth to love poetry.

At these words, Charles inhaled deeply to try to keep his composure and not punch the jeering face of the drunken poet. He made a movement to free himself.

-Listen, I think there's a misunderstanding... Charles started to say but he felt the hand slip from his shoulder to his neck and squeeze harder.

-No, no. No need to play coy with me... The poet was practically licking his ear.

This time it was enough, he turned and shoved hard the man who, surprised, staggered and almost fell down, just barely catching the back of a nearby chair.

Looking back up at Charles, he seemed to have completely sobered up and took on a nasty air.

-I'll teach you to respect me you, little fag...

He did not have the time to finish his sentence.

Erik had just slammed him to the wall.

He was holding him up by the lapel of his shirt with his fist, half strangling him.

-You're not touching him, brudny cipa! He roared.

In an instant, the costumers around them had left their chairs and started moving back. A small group soon formed in a half circle, the kind you could find around a boxing ring. Charles who had stood up too, did not dare to intervene at first.

-Let me go, fucking dirty Polack!!

The shady poet was trying to struggle pathetically by pulling on Erik’s arm, hard as iron, pinning him down to the grotto's wall. Insults giving no results, he quickly jumped to supplications.

-Listen my friend, we're not going to argue over this... Between artists... - Erik used his forearm to crush his plexus- Wait! Wait! I'm not the one who started it, he's the one who's been ogling me since an hour with his look of fair...

The punch went off with no warning and the man flown to the feet of his drinking comrades. There was a moment of silence.

One of them began to advance to confront them and Charles did the same, determined not to let Erik defend his honor alone. He clenched and unclenched his right fist, trying his swollen phalanx. A vivid pain electrized his arm. _Let's go for left hooks then...._

But the owner of the cabaret did not wait for the argument to turn into a barroom brawl. He rounded up waiters and started to raise his voice.

-Band of ruffians! You're going to get out of here or I'll call the cops!!

These words caused a wave of panic. The fear of the police, in a world where the costumers were either rascals or bourgeois people incognito was enough to have two thirds of the clientele run off! It was a chaos of robes, hats, shouts and chairs knocked over.

In the uproar, Erik retrieved their coats with one hand and grabbed Charles' arm. He forged through the crowd of clients rendered stupid by the panic and managed to drag him outside.

A torrential rain was waiting for them there. A true layer of water making the street sparkle and the buildings' shapes almost blur. The pavement was covered in water and mud. The last fleeting costumers were scattering in alleys or jumping in the fiacres which had had the courage to wait at the exit of the cabarets.

They soon were alone.

They put on their coats and jackets, but not two steps on the sidewalk and they were soaked to the skin.

Two wet rats in front of the devil's maw.

They looked at each other and, faced with their piteous state, they burst out laughing at the same time.

Their hilarity was, unfortunately, short lived. The cold of December seized them very quickly. Charles could already no longer feel the tip of his toes.

They temporarily took refuge on the No. 53's doorstep, between the two cabarets. Erik pulled Charles to him and for lack of offering him a better shelter, wrapped him in his arms. His hair was trickling on his forehead which he pressed against Charles'. The latter was overwhelmed by laughter once again; with both hands, he pushed the errant locks back for them to cease dripping on him.

Erik returned him a large smile. He was radiant.

 _Finally back to me again._ Thought Charles, plunging into these eyes now appearing a pale warm green color.

Comforted, he nestled against him, hands buried under his coat, face in the curve of his neck. Around them, big cold drops rolled along the roofs and gutters and came crashing down the pavement in a flooding noise. They remained like this for a few moments, savoring the solitude of their small island in the midst of this downpour.

-We are going to get pneumonia if we stay here! Finally admitted Charles, regretfully.

Erik tightened a little his embrace. He sighed.

-I may have a shelter to offer you but... After this pathetic adventure... I would understand if you didn’t accept...

Charles stepped back from him to better look him in the eyes. He could read there heavy guilt and meandering doubt. He put both palms on Erik's cheeks and, holding this way his face like a cup, he pulled Erik to him to kiss him.

A simple kiss tasting like rain to give him his silent answer.

_Yes Erik, I will follow you, wherever you want to take me, to Hell, to Heaven..._

_______________

 

While they ran hand in hand, laughing and skidding on the slippery pavement, Paris took on the attire of an enchanting world.

The alleys seemed covered with gemstones. The light of the lampposts reflected in each puddle, each drop, like mirror shards scattered by the rain. Water fell in a long tress, making the identically grey facades and the silhouettes of the rare passersby strangely spectral. Almost nothing was distinguishable. Everything was somberly damp or sequined withgold. The atmosphere had something surreal.

Erik's hand was so wet and slippery that Charles nearly dropped it at every turn, but it was still there, securing his, preventing him from falling when he stumbled on the muddy road.

They climbed the Montmartre hill. The rain still crashing down around them, along the sidewalks and stairs of this winding hillock where the city of light transformed into a village. There was hardly any light as they left the avenues to plunge in alleys but Charles, inexplicably, had confidence.

He held this hand like it was his Ariadne's thread. He knew, with a kind of instinctive certainty, that as long as it guided him, he feared nothing.

Finally, they reached a small square lined with trees and slowed their course. They stopped in front of a small, very high house with a modest facade of which Erik pushed the front door. He pulled him inside and slammed the panel shut again to finally cut them from the downpour.

They had arrived. Erik had led them to his place.

They did not exchange a word, the moment had something strangely solemn. Charles had the feeling of being the knight who had finally reached the last hiding place holding a fabulous treasure. His heart was beating strongly, it was perhaps the result of their journey through the alleys but Charles would not have sworn on it.

They shook themselves like young dogs and took off their shoes and soaked socks before going up the stairs with wooden steps made shapeless with time.

Erik walked ahead of him, they passed three floors, then finally reached the last landing opening on a single door. The artist pulled a key from his pocket and opened the old lock. He walked in first and headed immediately for a small wood-burner situated in a corner of the room.

-Come in! Come in please. Excuse me, I'm lighting this up right away so we can warm up.

Charles closed the door and pulled the bolt. He walked a few steps in the room. They were under the eaves, it was probably a former maid's room, or maybe an attic. There was a window opening on the street. Outside, rain was still falling down, drops hitting the glass in a muffled beat. The place was dry and smelled of a mix of old paper, ink and wilted roses.

He thought the atmosphere was somewhat comforting in its austerity. The darkness in the room meant he could not distinguish much.

He started to take off his jacket. This one was literally "to twist", the wool saturated so much with water. He suspended it to one of the two pegs near to the door. A wooden basin placed just below gathered the dripping water. The trick made him smile and calmed a little his anxiety.

Behind him, Erik stood back up, the embers had just kindled and the modest fire appearing from the small cast iron grid released a halo of light in the entire room.

The artist removed his jacket too and hung it up next to Charles'... who felt his heart leap violently in his chest when Erik also removed his soaked shirt, moving calmly to the table, where he began to light up an oil lamp.

The bare chest of a man.

It was evidently not the first time he saw one. But here, in the intimacy of this room... Everything was completely different. He could not refrain from following with his eyes the muscles of this chest sculpted by the warm light, the shape of this waist surprisingly thin, the manly shadow leading from his stomach to...

He turned to the wood-burner, his cheeks red.

This desire he felt growing inside him was terrifying. He did not want to look like an awkward and shy kid but he found himself in such a new situation that it truly caught him unawares. To overcome his trouble, he tried to play at friendship and said in a light tone:

-You're lucky, at least your pants are partly dry. I'm soaked to the bones!!

Saying this, he realized that, despite the heat of the wood-burner, he was shaking. His wet clothes were sticking the cold to his skin.

Behind him, Erik answered him with the same tone.

-Do not tempt a fever by keeping this on your back. I will put your clothes to dry, and while we wait I should be able to lend you something.

He had said this with detachment, casualness even. _He undoubtedly has no reason to be anxious as I am_ , thought Charles not without bitterness. For this man with a bohemian lifestyle who had probably experienced dozens of adventures of this kind, this situation was nothing special. Whereas for him...

He took a deep breath... and began to unfasten his suspenders.

 

______________

 

Erik did not dare moving.

He was watching Charles slip his soaked shirt from his shoulders, uncovering little by little his arms, his back, the hollow of his back. As many lines and curves made shiny with rainwater running in long, lascivious drops on this bare skin.

He held his breath, unable of making the smallest move faced with such tempting innocence, so pure, so sensual.

He had led him to his place, he had wanted him here, at the heart of his lair, like the dragon bringing the most precious jewel in his home.

And he was now before him, his treasure, nearly naked, offered to his gaze, beautiful to the point of being unreal.

His skin seemed painted in golden shadows by the warm light of the oil lamp. Moving shadows, ocher on a porcelain white, where galaxies of freckles came through on the curve of his neck, on the oval of his hips, on the base of his buttocks.

Erik felt desire grow in him, burning in his veins, stimulating his nerves. _I do not deserve someone like him._

He managed to close his eyes for an instant to collect himself and turned to the trunk in the corner of his room. He pulled out a white shirt from it, rumpled but clean, which he put on the back of a chair near Charles.

He spoke in a calm tone, a controlled voice.

-Here, this should do while the burner dries your wet clothes.

-Thank you. His young guest replied.

Charles finished undressing his back to him still; his pants had just fallen on the floor.

He was fully naked a few paces away, there, so close that Erik could see the grain of his skin shiver from the cold in the room.

Picking up his shirt left on the wooden floor, the artist followed, while getting back up, the line of Charles' ankles, of his calves, of his thighs, to the beautiful roundness of his arse.

He was then reminded of past embraces in a stream of brief images. Other bodies half-glimpsed in shoddy alleys or anonymous bedrooms. Male and female flesh he had taken unrestrainedly, sometimes for a few coins, just to satisfy a furtive need, to forget his misery.

He felt his cock harden painfully and his reason drown in desire.

He stepped back then, not daring to watch anymore, so full of these carnal thoughts that he felt guilty.

Shameful even. He turned away and tried to occupy his body and mind with the succinct tidying of his home, moved suddenly by its so poor aspect.

Erik gathered his sketchbooks and pencils, made some space on the small table and freed a stool littered in books, upon which he finally sat.

All this situation was almost stifling in its sensuality. He wanted to be able to makesilence within him, calm his heart and his soul. He put his face in his hands, closed his eyes and breathed lengthily.

This young man was overwhelming him, bewitching him. He desired him to the point of screaming and wished only to be his shadow. He wanted to possess him atrociously and prayed only to be his devoted knight. How had he come to such a chaos of emotions?

The noise of fabric being grabbed and smoothed out, sliding over skin, made him look up.

-I do not think it's my size, but it will do!

At the burst of laughter that followed this sentence, Erik dared to open his eyes.

He suddenly swallowed a big gulp of air.

The white linen shirt was easily twice too big for Charles. It slipped from his shoulder, uncovering in the process the top of his chest. It almost fell to his knees. It looked like an antic toga and the young man was the perfect image of an ephebe offered to adepts of roman orgies.

Erik could not even avert his eyes from this angelic picture anymore and, under the intense gaze he was fixing upon him, Charles, suddenly embarrassed, brought his hand to his throat and blushed.

Exquisite.

The artist could only stammer before this gesture of modesty.

-I don't have... have other spare shirts but... this one, I mean, yours will dry... and I... before two hours at most...

His embarrassment, though, had no other effect than to reassure Charles, who, certainly wanting to divert Erik's attention from himself, grasped a sketch left on the floor.

-Is this one of your masterpieces?

A more stable ground, a diversion, Erik clung to it to regain his senses. He felt like a shy schoolboy interrogated by the teacher, but tried an explanation in spite of everything.

-Yes, well, not a masterpiece, no... It's a simple sketch. I need to engrave it to have it printed. Next month, I will buy copper plates. Until then, I need to work on a few ideas. There are scenes I started, they have potential I think... There, on your right in the notebook, I have sketches nearly finished if you want to see them...

Charles sat on a corner of the mattress on the floor, practically crossed legged, a knee raised up and his other leg bent under his thigh. Completely lost in the contemplation of the sketchbook, he was not conscious of the indecency of his posture that the darkness of the room and the too big shirt alleviated only just.  

Erik swallowed. What he could not guess, he imagined, there, in the shadows of these bare thighs offered to his view. The desire literally consumed his thoughts, to the point of rendering him dumb, mute, and probably mad in a few minutes. Charles, fully concentrated on the sketchbook, seemed blind to the fire of which he was the spark.

-All this black, all these shadows... Is this what you see when you... observe people?

Charles turned a curious look in Erik's direction, damp locks twisting on his forehead. He smiled gently, inviting the artist to answer him, to confide in him.

Erik would not have been able, in any case, to resist to this look. But what to answer? _Before you, this was all that I saw. Obscurity was all that existed before I knew you._ He cut the thread of his thoughts. An honest and concise answer was necessary:

And this yes made Charles frown.

-Is this how you see me?

What a strange question and yet so relevant. With his azure orbs, it seemed to him that Charles could sound out his soul, read his mind? Erik prayed it was not the case, he had too much things to hide.

And the question was left unresolved, but the artist could not answer this. He could only hide behind his art.

-Would you allow me to draw you?

A silence.

The young man was observing him.

A question for a question.

 

______________

 

An hesitant yes, imperceptible. Charles had said yes in a timid and fragile voice like adventurer would make a first hesitant step to a journey which the destination was concealed.

 _Yes,_ to what? To everything, no doubt.

Yes, to everything wished this man who held his soul in the palm of his hand. This forbidden desire he tried to tame was eating at him inexorably.

He could not resist him. Erik's gaze, and his whole being, from his gestures to his voice, had this power over him.

He had never this much felt so little in control of himself.

Even as a teenager faced with his stepfather's rage, he had always had the certitude that his mind, his soul, were unattainable, protected by his reason.

But here, in this room, this reason was mute... or he had become deaf. He did not know anymore, he was lost.

He had followed Erik here by impulse, it was true, but not blindly.

Not innocently either; way less innocently, for that matter, than his conscience would have wished to confess. He wanted to indulge in this desire. Admittedly, he had never experienced this kind of things but... he had read some articles, had heard some stories... _Two men pleasuring each other..._

Charles forced himself to try to calm his heart which was beating so hard in his chest, he had the impression the noise was bouncing in the room.

Yes, he repeated.

It was better. The voice more assured, clearer. He smiled as much for himself than for Erik who looked feverish, like a condemned man waiting for his sentence. This unsettled Charles a bit, who griped clumsily to his fragilerecovered self-confidence.

-.. Hmm... You want me to pose there? Now?

He straightened up and put the sketchbook on the floor. Then, he raised his chin and, not knowing what to do with his hands, he joined them nonchalantly in front of him. Mimicking striking an artistically studied pose.

Erik breathed in. As he got up from his chair, he finally gave a hint of a smileand, visibly amused, told him:

-Perfect, like this. It looks like you have done this all your life!

The comment was meant lightly. The artist turned to extract from the pile of material on the table: a large white sheet, a cardboard and a charcoal.

Charles could not refrain from responding.

-Oh really? On the contrary. With you, I feel like experiencing first times only.

Erik, his back to him, still bent over the table, froze for an instant. Charles thought he glimpsed a slight tremor run through the artist’spine, followed by a long breath in.

When Erik turned back, his eyes were a dark grey color, dangerous, fascinating. The color of the abysses in which someone could dreams to fall into. He sat on the chair, his left foot on the seat, his raised knee supporting this way the drawing-board. His slow breathing made the muscle of his uncovered chest dance.

He did not start drawing immediately.

He scrutinized his model lengthily.

Charles felt stripped bare by this intensely focused look.

And bare, he was almost.

He realized he had never felt this conscious of his body than he did in this instant.

Of his body, of his skin, of what he felt, perceived. His feet and his legs resting on the dry wood of the worn floor. The slightly rustic fabric of his shirt and the sheet covering the mattress came caressing in places his chest, his arms, his thighs, his shaft. He was now becoming aware of this coarse brush, of this fresh caress on his skin still clammy from the rain.

He felt himself blush strongly and agitated by a sudden modesty.

Moved by an instinctive bashfulness, he folded his legs and, pulling clumsily at the collar of his shirt,tempted to cover his shoulder.

-Don't move!

Charles froze.

He began to apologize, to resume his former pose, more nonchalant, more confident, get his insolent attitude back, but he could not manage to regain his confidence which was falling in tatters. He was totally lost and knew he was pathetic, there, half naked, drowned in too big clothing. His cheeks reddened like a teenager caught at fault.

He lowered his eyes stung by tears of embarrassment. He would have wanted to be able to flee, disappear, but he did not dare to move anymore.

 

_________________________________________

 

There! This gesture! Charles had suddenly swapped his cheeky look for an attitude of pure shyness. Something fragile, a gesture of modesty so delicate and so fundamentally esthetically pleasing that Erik did not take the time to handle with kid gloves when he ordered:

-Don't move!

Charles froze before him. His cheeks were pink, his eyelids lowered, his lips parted open holding his breath. His chest had risen in a broken respiration. His hand clenched on the collar of his shirt had tried, without succeeding, to cover the curve of his bare shoulder.

Erik bit the inside of his cheek, what an imbecile he was. A brute. Incapable to behave with a minimum of manners even in his home.

He gave his voice a gentler tone.

-No, I'm sorry. Put back your hand. There. This gesture when you pulled up the collar. Yes, like this, it's... perfect. Very... it's very... it's... elegant. You are perfect. Now, look at me please.

Charles was obeying him, strangely docile.

And Erik felt his heart constrict at this thought.

The young man raised his head slowly.

Charles’ gaze appeared under the veil of his black eyelashes. And these eyes finally, mirrors of a bright blue color, came to settle on his. Rooting him to the spot.

He was beautiful, desirable, sublime.

Erik swallowed down. Histhroat was atrociously dry and his mind was vibrating to the point of making him dizzy.

He took a deep breath.

And managed to miraculously detach his eyes from the sapphire orbs to concentrate on his white sheet. He wanted to regain his concentration by losing himself in the emptiness of the blank page.

This evening was an intricacy of senseless moments. The emotions which had gone through him until now were so intense that, from hot to cold, from doubt to burning desire, he had completely lost himself.

He brought his charcoal to the paper.

A first black line, then a second. His hand progressively regained his confidence and his moves became broader, freer.

From simple lines appeared a shape, a form gradually animating.

Shadows he smeared with his thumb.

He threw glances over his paper to check a proportion, observe a line, but he let his hand work.

It had taken its independence.

Erik was like plunged in a dream. A trance. He was the puppet of which inspiration pulled the strings.

He did not want to think anymore, definitely not, from fear of drowning again.

Outside, the rain had petered out.

 

 

 

 

 

Enregistrer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we are approaching one of my favorite scene. The next chapter will be very sensual, I can not wait to make you discover it. I hope you liked that one.  
> Autheane all my love for your work on this chapter full of very loooooong descriptions, your translation is a jewel ! THANKS ! 
> 
> \-----  
> The little historical notes :  
> \- brudny cipa : "dirty piece of shit" in polish.  
> -polak : an insulting way of naming Polish immigrants in France.  
> -bonsoir : good evening in french  
> -Story oh the real cabaret of Hell and cabaret of Heaven (in french with photos): http://www.novaplanet.com/novamag/33072/entrez-dans-les-enfers


	6. All these shadows and Him.

 

Time had disappeared.

Minutes, as long as they were minuscule, succeeded one another and neither of the two men could have counted them.

The night was calm and, outside, the silent city seemed to no longer dare to make itself heard inside of the garret.

The sharp noise of the charcoal travelling over the paper filled the whole room.

Erik had calmed his heart, had subjected it to his art.

But he knew it was a temporary respite.

He had refused to look Charles in the eyes. Omitting to draw his look, leaving there a blank to keep this ultimate temptation for the end of his work. He almost dreaded to dive into this blue abyss. He dreaded to lose himself again.

The sketch was taking shape, it was almost achieved. It was simply lacking the most important part: the eyes.

_All this blackness... Is this how you see me?_

Charles’ sentence resonated in him. _All this blackness..._ The artist looked at his fingers, they were blackened by the fragile stick of charcoal. _Black..._ To extinguish this brilliant blue, to cover all this light, all this life; he wanted to attenuate it, to control it. He was afraid it would overcome him, consume him.

_Black. Black powder._

Erik had an idea.

He stood up and put his drawing down on the table.

-Have you finished?

Erik noted there was a note of impatience in Charles' voice, not of weariness but of curiosity.

The artiste had kept the charcoal in hand and came to sit in front of his model.

-No, I'm not quite finished, a detail left and I release you.

 _I release you._ Erik smiled to himself. Was he not the prisoner in this game?

-Can I move? I'm beginning to go numb all over.

Charles didn’t wait for an answer and stretched his legs which came to lay on the wooden floor, before the artist who swallowed. His naked feet, the line of his calf and the centimeters of fair skin to the shadow of the cloth... Erik felt his reason waver anew.

-Yes, huh... I would like to try something... Would you mind closing your eyes?

Still refusing to look at him, Erik attempted to crumble the tip of carbon between his fingers until he reduced it in a fine powder in the hollow of his palm.

-What do you want to do? Questionned Charles.

Without answering him, Erik moistened with his tongue the tip of his forefinger and gathered a little of the charcoal's black soot.

-I would like...

He finally turned his attention to the face of his model and his answer was lost in his contemplation.

Charles had his eyes closed. He was frowning in impatience. The bridge of his nose was sprinkled with freckles which scattered, more discreet, on his cheekbones and his lips...

… These incredibly beautiful lips, full and luscious, colored in a diaphanous red... These lips he had there, a few centimeters away from his.

-You would like to …?

Erik almost startled. Though the young man's voice was barely audible, so timid and yet, it had burst out in the room.

The artist held his breath. _Black..._ He brushed Charles' eyelid with the tip of his blackened finger. This one shivered slightly.

-Don't move please.

Erik continued his work, after an eyelid, the other, then under the eye, barely, just a shadow. Darkness there, around this gaze, to attenuate the strength, to tarnish all this purity, for him to get the upper hand back over his emotions by controlling this look which was driving him mad.

He wanted to surrender to himself, to regain his soul.

The artist observed his result. The black was there, on closed eyelids. Shadow contrasted on pale skin. Strangely, it did not look like make-up, there was not this effect of shiny eyeshadow or a line artistically hemmed along lashes. No, it was just like a touch of mourning on a too young face. He suddenly thought of these photographic portraits of deceased people. The models looked asleep, but the too violent contrasts of their pale complexion and the shadows on their eyelids gave the illusion away.

He inhaled.

Charles was barely breathing, lips half-opened, seemingly keeping an eye out for a sign.

-You can open your eyes.

Ocean's orbs then slowly reappeared, inexorably, at the center of the shadows.

Erik felt his heart fall silent and his mind escape.

 _My god..._ It was worse! A thousand time worse! It was extraordinary...

He had not thought, he would not have assumed that...

The black shadow gave the young man an amazing gaze.

The purest innocence shining in the midst of sin.

The touch of black came to complete the masterpiece and transform this already angelic face into an almost mystical apparition.

He was all Erik could see: this deep blue brilliance giving to Charles' look an infinite power.

What had he done? He had just created the incarnation of temptation.

Erik was so close to him, he could even distinguish the rapid beating of Charles' pulse on his throat. Strong, fast, vibrant. The beat of excitement accelerating, his breathing jolting. The anxiety, the anticipation, the want.

Charles swallowed and passed the tip of his tongue over his lips.

Hypnotized, Erik watched them become wet, red and bright like the flesh of a fruit.

He could not return to his drawing any longer, he could not move anymore, he was paralyzed by this devouring desire dictating him to take this purity, to steal this beauty, to accept what had been handed to him with such generosity.

But he did not dare, he felt gauche. Like it was the first time, like he had never done this kind of thing. Never...

The blue gaze left his for an instant to lower to his mouth. Interrogating, waiting, giving him the choice.

Erik took a deep breath... And plunged into the void.

With one hand placed on his waist, he gently laid Charles on the mattress. He covered his body with his and came to garner these lips... Finally.

They tasted like rain and a little like that cherry alcohol they had drank at the cabaret. He kissed him slowly, not wanting to rush anything, savoring each breath.

Then with his mouth, he wandered over the young man's face, followed the line of his neck, the hollow of his throat in a long succession of kisses. He wanted to taste each of these delicate freckles, as many grains of cinnamon spicing a smooth cream, adorning the curve of his naked shoulder. His skin was incredibly soft there.

With his chin, he moved aside the too large collar of the linen shirt, unveiling part of the chest of his young lover. He stopped a moment on this finely muscled chest that excitement lifted in rapid breaths. He contemplated this vibrant body and noted Charles did not seem to know what to do with his hands which he still persisted to bury in the sheet. Erik wanted to make him let go, he wanted to be his guide, once more, on this territory they explored together.

When the artist took between his lips the raised tip of one of his nipple, Charles gulped deeply.

The fragile bud of flesh was hardened by the coolness of the room that the shabby wood burner had not yet managed to fully chase.

He abused it with his tongue, titillated it with his teeth until the young man let a groan of pleasure escape.

Finally... Finally, Erik felt with delight, a white hand grab his bicep while the other, hungrier, began to roam over his back. Adventurous at first, it drew the valleys of his muscles for a long time, tracing the line of his spine but, probably stopped by the too real contact of his pants, did not dare to go lower.

Erik smiled. He straightened up and began to undress completely.

 

________________________________________

 

 _This man has fascinating hands_ , thought Charles. Long and graceful, they moved in tender gestures in the form of caresses. They gave him this rare elegance, natural. He observed them, not daring to move, when they came to skillfully loosen his belt, undo the buttons of his fly, and uncover the shadows of this body that attracting him viscerally. The lines of his waist, of his hips, the beginning of his groin, sumptuous continuities of this chest seemingly carved by an artist of the Antiquity.

Charles suddenly needed to be the one to unveil the rest of this masterpiece. He straightened up in turn and put his hands on the artist's.

-Can I? He asked, uncertain.

Erik was watching him with moving tenderness. He took his face in the hollow of his palms then kissed him. A kiss so intense that Charles forgot everything for several minutes. When he opened his eyes again, it was to drown in beautiful deep grey orbs. Two peaceful lakes after a violent storm.

He could not help smiling at him, the heart swollen with feelings. The most diverse emotions were going through him. Apprehension and desire blending closely together. It was a chaos like he had never felt before.

Charles was incredibly hot, feverish shivers ran through him from his neck to his toes, electrifying his skin. It was delicious. It was terrifying. Erik was now playing with the locks of hair falling on his neck with the tip of his fingers. The movement was soothing.

After a few seconds, he managed to regain his senses and shyly lowered his eyes. His hands had remained on the reverse of the fabric still covering the rest of his lover's body.

This one was not moving, letting him do as he wished, letting himself be moved.

They were both on their knees. The position of sacred times.

Charles rested his burning forehead on Erik's chest. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. The smell of his warm and comforting skin, flowing in him, calmed a little the beating of his heart.

Feeling around, he dared to plunge his hand in the shadow of the clothing. With his fingertips, he discovered the roughness of this virile skin. His warmth.

The touch made him shudder.

It was pleasant, intriguing.

He sensed the firm shaft of the artist's erection that he followed with his thumb to the root, around which he wrapped his fingers. Was this how he had imagined the erection of another man? This burning and heavy flesh in the hollow of his palm. Intimidating.

He began to caress it and Erik let a stifled moan escape.

Charles looked up to find that Erik had closed his eyelids and pressed his fist against his mouth. His face was tense like under an intense strain.

Charles suddenly felt so clumsy, he removed immediately his hand.

Erik then, opened astonished eyes.

Charles, confused, did not know how to justify his lack of experience. He began to withdraw, to apologize, not knowing what to do with his hands and whole body.

-I'm sorry, I... I have never... well... I mean yes, but... not... not with...

The artist gently grabbed his shoulders, suddenly very serious.

-Charles, a _niołku,_ look at me.

But he could not, he was atrociously ashamed of his inexperience.

-Charles, you're perfect... You have no idea the effect you have on me, it's... - The artist sighed softly – It's just that... S _karbie,_ I don't want to rush you... I want to be patient but it's... torture. I want you so much that I will go mad.

Charles, who had looked up, was truly astounded.

Desire... Natural and simple, attraction. In Erik's eyes there was no judgement, no disdain, no contempt. There was only this thirst for him. It gave him the right to, at last, be himself and to dare to venture to this new curiosity.

He felt that the immense weight made of embarrassment and shame, which had been crushing him until this instant, disappeared like a tower made of sand, swept away by these few words.

This man was his key, his freedom, the one who could awaken him to himself. Barriers of doubts and scruples which had protected his heart for so long, flew far away. And he burst out laughing.

 

______________________________

 

This laugh had something magical, thought Erik contemplating his lover's hilarity. The sound, so light and alive, warmed his heart and made light enter in the dark attic.

Charles took on a deliciously mischievous air. He arched one brow, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile and gently put his palms on his chest.

They were soft and warm, he thought. The young man sank against him, seemingly bending to welcome a kiss...

… Then, suddenly pushed Erik on the mattress on which he fell heavily.

-Well, Mister Bohemian, since you cannot wait patiently, I have no choice but to hasten things up!

He took off his shirt in one move, a tad clumsily, and flippantly threw it against a pile of drawing sheets which scattered sluggishly. Now, fully naked, with his insolent beauty in the golden light of the oil lamp, he sat on Erik's legs and began to take off his trousers.

The artist, at first too surprised to make the slightest movement, thought however to rise a little to allow the cloth to pass over the curve of his buttocks. When his hardness engorged with desire was freed from the constrict of the clothing, he could not contain a groan of satisfaction, arching his back voluptuously. His movement was stopped by his young lover who had put both his hands on his thighs and was pressing him down this way against the mattress. He was holding his gaze, defying Erik to tempt to free himself.

Bewitched as he was, Erik didn’t make a move.

Both palms slowly went up along his legs. Charles bent down and his lips followed the path of his hands. He was in a position fiendishly erotic, half-crouching, like a cat devouring its prey, the muscles of his back, the curve of his lower back raised like a dune of pale skin. He was beautiful to the point of being damned and Erik did not move an inch, drowned as he was in this contemplation.

The young man was kissing his legs, touch by touch, the tip of his nose exploring the skin, up to the hollow of his thighs, until his cheek came brushing his erection. He buried his face then, in the shadow of his lower abdomen and, delicately ran his tongue over the whole length of his hardness, from root to tip, lingering there longer to taste his desire from which a drop had pearled.

These delicious red lips came to suck his glans shyly, then, forming a large "O", took it deeply in his mouth.

At this single view, Erik nearly reached climax. He wondered briefly if he should close his eyes to try to calm himself, but it was impossible. He could not detach his eyes from this greedy mouth swallowing him in long back and forth movements.

He could only grip the mattress with all his strength and tame his hips with difficulty for them not to, by reflex, force this offered throat, this burning wetness in which he wanted to bury himself in, to spill into.

In the silent room resonated a long wheeze of pleasure, the artist realized a little groggily that he was the author of.

Charles, surprised, had looked up and stopped his movement. And Erik, at first dazed, progressively regained his senses and contemplated his young lover.

This one was interrogating him with his azure eyes, still holding in his white hand the base of his erected member of which the damp, red tip rested on his lips, shiny with saliva.

He was magnificent. In the semi-darkness of this artist's slum, he looked like a model of Caravaggio: a fallen angel in chiaroscuro.

Erik held his breath. The evidence had just gripped his heart.

_I love him._

In his mind, everything disappeared. There was absolutely nothing left.

 _I love him_. This thought, this feeling against which he had struggled so much was there. Unique, vital, filling him totally. A blinding light engulfing his soul.

He felt tears drown his eyes and his throat constrict.

-Erik, what is it?

Charles, his angel. He was worried, he didn’t know, he couldn’t  know... Nor understand he had just killed him, and saved him in the span of the same second.

Erik grabbed his arm swiftly and pulled him to him to hold him, to have him in his arms, to keep him, protect him, forever. He kissed him for a long time, sensing traces of his own desire's taste on the lips he adored. _I love him, I love him. Please, don't take him away from me, don't let me hurt him._

He buried his face in Charles’ disheveled locks. They were still damp. Erik  breathed lengthily, slowly, trying to calm down. His reason came back to him progressively. He clung to it as best as he could.

Against his hip, he felt the presence firm and impatient of the young man's hardness. He raised his knee slowly then, to come caressing with his thigh this member hardened by arousal.

A long whimper welcomed his gesture. Erik then run his fingertips along Charles’ lower back and fondled the globes of his buttocks. Finally, he slipped his hand between their tightly entwined bodies and grasped both their erections.

Charles buried his face in the curve of his neck and his breath grew uneven. To Erik only, he gave himself and entrusted his pleasure. The artist felt his heart swell with tenderness.

He began in long strokes, tender at first, then firmer, massaging their burning flesh in an identical back and forth motion, faster and faster.

The coolness of the room had disappeared , there was only the heat of their skin covered in sweat left. There was no noise but their breaths. In his ear, he soon perceived in a sweet litany, Charles' voice whispering his name again and again.

Then, in the solitude of their shelter under the eaves, amidst this winter night, there was nothing left but their pleasure. And he was their only guide until the caress carried them very high, until their nerves burst into flames, until their reasons let go, and they abandoned themselves to one another. Finally.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first attempt to smut ! With those two, inspiration goes easily ^_^' don't you think ?  
> With now a great translation work by Autheane, you're a gift my friend : THANK YOU SO MUCH !!
> 
> ____  
> Little notes :  
> aniołku : my angel in polish
> 
> skarbie : my treasure in polish
> 
> Caravaggio was an italian painter famous for his dramatic and emotional use of lightings and shadows (named chiaroscuro/ clair obscur). He painted very sensual figures of young guys (it is said that some of them were is lovers) : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caravaggio
> 
> The shadow on the eyelides scene is a sensual and romantic moment, but, in doing so, Erik refers to a strange but true tradition of the 19th century: the post mortem photography (beware, it may be shocking, do not look at this link if the sight of corpses frightened you) : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-mortem_photography


	7. You are perfect

The dawn was not there yet , but a pale white light already bathed the sky of Paris.

Charles awoke slowly. He shivered, his naked shoulder was uncovered and cold. He groaned and tried to curl up more in the sheets. His mattress smelled strangely of dust and he did not recognize the odor of his pillow ...  
It took a few moments to remind him that he was not in his room, not in his bed, not in his daily life as a member of a posh neighborhood.

He opened his eyes wide, his heart pounding.

Everything came back to him in cascade: the cabaret, the rain, Erik, the mansard, his hands on him and his mouth on ...

Good Lord!

He straightened up suddenly. The sheet and the thin cover that half covered him slipped on his waist. He had remained naked.

" _Bonjour_ my angel." Charles turned quickly in the direction of the beautiful warm voice that undoubtedly address him.

  
Erik sat on the floor by the window, dressed only in the shirt Charles had worn yesterday evening. One of his long bare legs was lying on the floor, the other, folded, supported a large drawing board. Around him scattered dozens of sheets of paper covered with sketches.

  
"You have not slept?" Charles asked, a little embarrassed without knowing why.

  
The artist smiled. He put his drawing on the floor.  
"Very little, I couldn't ... I was too full of You."

His gray eyes lost a moment in the contemplation of the sketches scattered throughout the room.

Charles followed his gaze and realized that he was their only model. It was his neck, his chest, his face, his eyes, his body stretched by a sudden pleasure. Him sublimated in a thousand lines of pencil.  
He felt what remained of his modesty rising red to his cheeks. He reflexively brought the sheets around him.  
It did not go unnoticed.  
"Ah, no, parisian's models have no right to be shy!"Erik, imitating the approach of a hunting predator, slipped on all fours to the mattress, where Charles greeted him laughing as he spilled him on his back. He could not help to embrace him more, tangling his fingers in the blond hue of the artist's hairs he was covered with kisses. His beard began to grate against the tender skin of his neck. Charles found this new sensation quite electrifying.

"Does models have the right to be dressed when they are cold?" He dared.

Erik kissed him on the mouth soundly as he slid his palms down his waist."Models never get cold!" He retorted, in mock outraged.

He tickled him more than he caressed him and Charles, won over by the lightness of the moment, squirmed to escape him, playing to struggle. Erik finally grabbed his wrists against the mattress and began sucking the lobe of his ear.

  
This did not prevent Charles, though panting a little, from continuing to speak.  
"Oh yes ? And ... by what miracle of ... science ... is this possible?" But with his tongue and his lips, Erik was now running the lenght his chest, and his warm breath, caressing Charles' fresh skin, making him shudder.

  
The answer that was delivered to him was interspersed with kisses more and more sensual."Models are never cold because ... talented artists know ... how to warm them up."  
Charles wanted to reply to this ridiculous argument, but the sound that escaped from his throat turned into a grunt of pleasure. Erik had released his wrists and was now softly biting his nipple while slowly caressing his shaft.

  
"I always get the last word," said the artist playfully , smiling, leaving the tender flesh moistened with saliva.  
He followed a line from Charles' belly to his navel and then to his groin. And when he grasped the end of his erection between his lips, his young lover definitively lost the use of speech.

 

* * *

 

It was soon 8 o'clock and daylight invaded the streets. The winter sunlight drove away the thick mist that had settled during the night.  
Charles, notwithstanding the cold which penetrated through the doors of the cab, still had red on his cheeks. And even his clothes, wet from the day before, could not cool the delicious warmth that went through him.  
There was hardly a few minutes, he was in Erik's arms, in his room under the roofs of this bonhemian house.

The bells of a distant church had brutally pulled them out of their embrace and Charles, suddenly realizing the late hour, had dressed quickly. He had to find a cab to go home before his stepfather returned. Erik had escorted him on the boulevards.  
It was hard then not to kiss, not to hold hands! The two men, however, were craving for it. Every Parisian bystander they crossed was a bit their torturer in this game of hide and seek with good morals. They nevertheless managed to steal a few kisses around a quiet square and even at the door of the fiacre where Erik found the excuse to help him climb to be able to kiss him one last time. And what a kiss! He still had the taste of it on his lips.  
He cursed the growing succession of moments and meters that separated him from the hands of his lover, his lips, his skin. Erik's scent enveloped him deliciously as the wheels of the carriage jogged on the cobblestones.  
The car stopped in front of the Xavier-Marko mansion and the driver grunted something when Charles descended. Still in the good thrill of his night, he awarded him the prize of his course without paying attention to his bad mood.  
He passed discreetly through the entrance of the servants quarters which opened under the porch where the carriages were lined up.  
It was at this moment that the cold of December snatched a shiver in him.

Kurt's car was there.

Hungry, Charles took a detour through the kitchens, but instead of the busy atmosphere he expected to find among the servants, he fell only on an embarrassed silence. The cook and the maid gave him an uncertain look.  
Loud voices rang through the hall. He recognized the thundering voice of his stepfather.  
"I do what I want in my house! And I warn you: your days in this house are numbered also if you persist in standing up against me!"  
Charles climbed the staircase and reached the scene where the scandal was held. Kurt Marko, furious, threatened to slap Miss Moira while Raven, behind her, had her eyes full of tears.  
Sooner had Charles stepped into the room they all turned towards him.  
"Ah, here he is!" Growled Kurt.  
Charles approached without lowering his gaze, though his messy outfit should not play in his favor. To give himself a strong mien, he put all his aplomb in his first reply.  
"What you care to tell me what you've done to my sister so that she's in tears at eight in the morning?"

Kurt'eyes nearly get out of their sockets, he turned to the two women, yelling.  
"And that's how he's talking to me ?  Insolent! Look at him Moira! Such a beautiful example for your so sweet pupil that her degenerate brother who returns in the early morning dressed like a beggar and stinking of debauchery! And on Christmas Eve nonetheless!"He turned to Charles again, this time scornfully. "Your sister? But your sister has every reason to be in tears, it is enough for her to see you to die of shame."

The girl was sobbing. And it was his governess who spoke in a frigid voice.  
"Mademoiselle Raven is in tears, for less than an hour ago your stepfather dismissed Armando."  
"Have I not warn you ?" Marko said, "This is the last time I let you speak! One more insolence and you'll be out on the street, and believe me, you will learn to shut up and accept a beating!"  
Moira clenched her teeth so as not to reply. She took her protege in her arms. Charles did not want to back down. He shrugged.  
"Why did you dismissed him ?! This boy had been working for us for 8 years!"  
Marko then approached Charles, blowing through his nostrils like a ready-to-load bull. He spat his reply to Charles' face in a voice altered by rage.  
"I'm not going to justify  to you young man! How many times will it be necessary to remind you that you are not the master in this house !?"  
Charles tightened his jaw, all his muscles strained to answer.

"Charles! He dismissed Armando because he refused to tell him where you left to last night!" said Raven between two sobs.  
Kurt turned towards her, furious. Charles thought he was going to slap her. To prevent this, he intervened with a firm voice.  
"Moira, escort Mademoiselle Raven  in her room to rest!"

But his younger sister did not hear this, and immediately protested.  
"But Charles I didn't-"  
"Raven, you go up to your room right now!" He ordered her.

She widened her eyes. He has never spoke to her in that tone.  
Her governess took her by the arm and carried her away without further protest. The last glance his sister sent him, before climbing the great staircase, was full the deepest disappointment.  
Once the two women had disappeared in their room, he stood before Marko, who had taken a satisfied look in the interval.  
It was due to fatigue or exasperation, probably a mixture of both, but Charles could not contain is anger any longer.  
"What do you want damnit!? And do not tell me that it was your pseudo paternal solicitude that put you in such a state of anxiety that you thought it necessary to dismissed Mr. Munoz on Christmas Eve!"

"He did not want to answer me, he did not want to obey me and I. don't. tolerate.those who refuse to obey me!" Grumped his stepfather.

"I will not obey you, my sister will not obey you, and what are you going to do? Throw us under a bridge!"

  
His stepfather inhaled deeply through his nose before replying in a strangely calm tone.  
"For your sister, the affair is concluded: she will marry Sebastian Shaw."

  
"Nothing is concluded! I haven't given my consent to this man!"

"I know !!" Tundered Kurt, then he resumed his voice which, nevertheless, remained sharp. "I know you sent him away. I know that you have behaved with him with the most contemptible arrogance towards him. Something you’ve become quite good at, since you’ve turned away every suitable match which I find with great difficulty for your beloved sister!"

"Suitable"! Your suitable men are without fail vulgar men, four times too old for her, stinking of concupiscence! She is beautiful and intelligent, she has a respectable name and if you had not entered our lives she would still have a dowry more than comfortable! She deserves much better than that!", yelled Charles.  
Faced with the accusing tone of his stepson, Kurt finally got carried away again. He advanced towards him and made him retreat to the wall by stunning him with accusations. "Oh you think that ?! But look at you in your wandering cast-offs, looking like a wretched little snobbish pedant! You have always disgusted me. You are like all those sons of belated and decadent nobles, you rely on your pensions, your titles, your pseudo knowledge of intellectual feigning but you have no merit, no guts!" He literally foamed, spitting insults a few centimeters from Charles' face. "Your name ?! But who knows Xavier's name anymore ?! You are still lucky that a rich antiquarian like Sebastian Shaw finds some interest in marrying the daughter of your stupid lighthead of father, otherwise it is not with your skills in high society that she would get a ring! Ah, when I see you with your manners of English lord, I want nothing more than to offer you to the army! You would see what 's like to become a man, they would know how to harden you there. Or better, they would break you. These rebellious airs and graces: they would make you swallow it !"

Charles remained stoic. In face of this hysterical hatred his own anger fell, drowned in weariness and disillusionment. There was nothing there that he had never heard, nothing that he had already guessed even if in the past Kurt preferred to translate his insults into blows. His stepfather was jealous. He detested the Xavier children , and the young Charles in particular, to be born in luxury without having to fight to earn their stripes in the world. It was always the same odious litany, the same reproaches on his taste for books, the denigrations on his slender silhouette, or his blue eyes, too innocent.

 _You're perfect_ , Erik had told him.

He clenched his fists and waited for the storm to end. Normally, Kurt was quickly exhausted. And indeed, Marko, seeing that Charles did not react, stopped his diatribe. The young man took advantage of it to escape him as one dodges a bull when the animal catches its breath.  
"Well, I will not listen this any more. I have better things to do than to hear you spill your bile on my family or me."He turned his back and walked towards the stairs.

Behind him, Kurt chuckled.  
"Of course, always too cowardly to face me, it's easier kneel down."

Charles froze, one foot on the first step of the staircase. He though at his  younger self, both hands laid flat on his fstepfather's desk, receiving strokes on his tights until the pain made him bend his legs. Until he falls, indeed, on his knees. But he was of age now! He was no longer vulnerable. He could answer, he could fight.  
But here, today, he didn't. The fight was of no interest since no victory could be seen. Kurt would have the last word, and he would have it so long that Charles would not have secured his sister's future. Charles resumed his ascent, without a word.

His stepfather was relentless."Oh I believe you like it! To submit! We know where end the weaks like you! There is something perverse about it, I knew right away when I saw you! I had warned your mother besides ... with your maiden shyness, only waiting for ..."  
Kurt's furious voice continued to stick to his neck until he reached his room, but Charles was no longer listening.

His mind was completely drowned in bitterness. All the sweetness of his awakening had been eaten away by this nauseating house.

Once the door of his room was close, he collapsed on his bed.

_A coward. A bad brother. And a perverse with that._

He was exhausted.  
Despite hunger and frustration, he fell asleep immediately.

* * *

 

Charles awoke with a violent headache. With the light that bathed his room, he guessed that it must be already the end of the afternoon.  
He got up, a little groggy, and ran his hand through his hair to tame it a bit. It was lost cause. He wore yet his yesterday's clothes, he feel the moisture on the rain sticking to his skin. He resembled, in every respect, the image his stepfather had of himself: a pitiful and feeble kid.  
_You are perfect._ Charles had a sad smile, rethinking about the tender words of his lover. This morning in Erik's arms seemed so far away. He missed him atrociously, and he had known this man for scarcely four days . This frail liberty, which he had only tasted, was so delightful. In tearing himself away from it, it was as if he had cut off wings that he did not even know he had.  
But dreams had only a time, and his true life was there. And he had to face it, starting with the New Year's Eve dinner.

He took his time to wash, shave and change.  
Then he walked over to Raven's room. He knocked softly at her door. After a long minute, it was Miss McTaggaert who opened it.

"Monsieur, I am sorry, but Mademoiselle is indisposed, she does not wish to see anyone."

Charles felt a weight descend into his stomach.  
"She does not even want to join us for dessert?" He asked feebly. He needed his sister, it was childish no doubt, but he needed her light to drive away the shadows. The governess gave him a smile full of compassion.

  
"Alas, she refuses to leave her room. I tried to reason with her, but she did not want to hear it."  
He thanked her, he did not know for what, perhaps for her smile, and he went down to the main room.

He found no one there. The meal was not even served.  
On the table in the dining-room awaited him a letter written on a paper adorned with a gold border.

 _Charles,_  
_Not seeing you appear, I allowed our servants to take their supper early to be able to go to the mass of Advent. This evening, Mrs. Emma Frost, the wife, as you should know, of the collector of Antiquities Edgar Frost did me the honor to invite me to his Christmas dinner. She is a very respectable lady and a very dear friend of Mr. Shaw. (Besides, he, who, despite your deplorable attitude towards him, has deigned generously to play the go-between, so that I may be invited). I hope, by this meal, where he will be present, to assure him of the particular interest he would have in uniting himself with your sister, a daughter of a landless peer, to put respectability on his name. Since my return, I advise you to calm the reluctance of this ungrateful lady for the good of her future ... and yours._  
_K. Marko_

  
Charles' hand clutched at his stepfather's letter, he sat down at one of the corners of the long oak reception table.It seemed so empty with its immaculate white tablecloth and its unique silver candlestick in the center of it. And the whole room seemed to him empty despite the decoration overloaded with gildings and golden frames, in spite of the rich furnitures and the canvas stacking up to the ceiling, in spite of the thick carpets and the heavy curtains of crimson velvet, everything was empty to him.. And he was alone, desperately alone.

* * *

 

The day of December 25, 1899, was foggy. The winter had decided to fall on the city in long tongues of frosty cold. Outside not living soul. Paris was frozen.

  
_It's Christmas morning ..._ Charles thought as he got up. It did not warm his heart. The feeling of emptiness that had won him the night before seemed unwilling to leave him. He felt like a puppet with cut wires.

  
The family lunch in the company of Kurt passed without scandal, without remark, without even a word. Neither Raven nor their stepfather loosened their tongue, and Charles did not have the energy to keep up a social conversation all by himself. Everyone emptied his plate in silence. Festivities and gifts were not on the agenda.  
Still, he wanted to spend time with his sister, talk to her and try to explain his intentions, but the girl slipped away at the end of the meal and did not reappear at dinner. Meanwhile, Marko had decreed that he would leave for four days at one of his associates' country houses.

It was not until the next morning that Charles managed to talk with Miss McTaggert about Armando, whose precarious situation had racked him for two days. He entrusted the governess with a small sum of money which he had managed to levy on his savings, and a complimentary letter of recommendation to hand over to the young footman as soon as possible. He was angry that Armando had to suffer the consequences of his stepfather's tyranny. To know that his escapade of the night before had cost Armando his job filled Charles with guilt and frustration.

To avoid thinking about all his issues, Charles also reviewed with Moira the preparations for the New Year's Ball.  
It would be  held on the ground floor of the mansion of the avenue of Passy. The large doors of the reception hall, the lounge and the hall would be opened and the rooms emptied of their furniture to allow the guests to move easily. A pianist as well as two violinists would be hired to give a pleasant musical note to the reception but it was not a question of dancing, or only one or two waltzes for young guests to make acquaintance. There will be delicate appetizers to peek throughout the evening while chatting among people. The winter garden would also be free to allow the ladies to sit quietly. Nearly 120 guests were expected, all extracted from the top of the circle of English-speaking expatriates in Paris. Everything was planned and framed at best. Charles had been watching carefully to it because Raven had to make her debut that night. No false note were expected, the ball had to be radiant to be able to charm potential matches.  
While he watched every details of the evening, Moira looked at him with her beautiful brown eyes. She seemed more pensive than usual, almost sad. She had said nothing and simply acquiesced at his ideas.

  
"Mademoiselle Raven is fortunate to have a brother so anxious about her future," she finally commented.

Charles replied with a smile."I wish with all my heart that she should be happy."

"But will she be happy in the role of a pampered wife?", she said.  
Charles remained speechless. Still, there was nothing really surprising in this reply, the governess used to make small remarks and give discreet advices. She had almost become a member of the family since she worked in this house.

But here he can't help to want to justify himself. "I know it's not necessarily the future my sister is dreaming about. She has always had a very liberal mind and with all that we heard about these young women who goes on adventures around the world ... it is true that these days ... they are probably tempting models but finally...we can say that these are impossible lives ... Raven does not see it now, because she is  young, but-".  
"-Will my _youth_ always be your excuse to decide MY life without MY will?

Charles turned, surprised. His sister stood at the door of the room. She had her arms crossed on her chest, and her face expressed a mixture of irritation, defiance, and anger. Charles, at first glad to see her at last, after three days of silence, was saddened by her acid tone.  
"I'm responsible of you. I do what is best in the circumstances in which we are. You know Marko doesn't leave me any choice."

She stepped into the room and replied with exasperation. "Any choice ! But we always have a choice! That's what you don't want to see Charles. We always have a choice, you only lack the courage to assume yours!"

"Do not talk to me about courage, little sister, you know nothing of what I'm going through, you know nothing of what I'm fighting against, when you live a quiet and protected existence."  
The girl swallowed, blew her nose and replied fiercely."Oh yes _quiet_ really! But you think I'm blind and deaf? You think I do not hear when Kurt screams at you? And all those horrors he said to you? You think I'm not ashamed of you when I hear him call you a coward and ... these filthy names and you do not even reply!"

"Mademoiselle, these are not things to say to a dear brother," interposed Moira, and Raven calmed herself somewhat.  
Charles blushed. Of course his sister had witnessed all the present and past slaps, of course she had heard the loudest howling when Kurt was yelling on him in his desk room. The closed door didn't seal everything. Had she also seen his tears? After that? Charles hoped not because about that, yes, he was ashamed.  
"I do not have the same responsibilities as you. Before rushing headlong to defend my unfortunate outraged pride I must first think of you and your future."

Raven let out a sour sigh. "Yes, it's always the same speech, you use me to justify your lack of courage."  
"How can you be so unfair? Between my freedom and your happiness I chose for a long time, it's not cowardice, it's to be responsible." he said firmly.

"My happiness ... but Charles, I stifle in this house, I stifle in that golden cage you lock me in, I don't even understand that you have not already gone to make your life now that you can. If I was you I would never have endured all this."  
She looked at him with something like pity in her eyes. This, far more than the rest, hurt him stongly. He had a knock in his throat and the biggest trouble finding out what to answer her.  
The governess, who had stood back quietly, interrupted their exchange.  
"Mademoiselle, I remind you that this afternoon we must go to _Sir Causse shop_ to buy your new gloves for the ball. We must leave in an hour. You should go up to your room to get ready."

Raven sighed and, considering she had nothing more to add, resolutely left the room, leaving her brother and Moira alone.  
"I do not live up to what is expected of me. I never have, it seems"Charles said in an extinguished voice.  
The governess who had risen to follow her pupil, retraced her steps and approached him gently. Her tone was almost maternal."You are both strong and intelligent young siblings. You have the same independent mind and beautiful ambitions. Your sister arrives at an age when she begins to grasp them. In no time, she won't be embarrassed by the constraints of our society. Soon she will fly with her own wings. Perhaps you could too ignore those and pursue your own dreams."

Charles looked at her, his mind gnawed by bitterness and resignation.  
_His dreams ? If she knew._ "You are mistaken, I have no ambition and for my dreams... Well, let say that I have no right to claim them."  
"Then take the right, steal it if you must!"

Dear Moira, Charles though, she had always been far too revolutionary for a governess. He smiled at her sadly. "You do not evaluate the consequences of what you advise me."  
She sighed like she was before an obstinate student who refuses to solve a simple exercise.  
"You deserve your freedom, too. Do not wait for your stepfather to stifle what is left of your freshness. Do not wait until you have only regrets."

"And if I am too coward to take this liberty?". He said incertain.

"You are not a coward, Monsieur Xavier, you have never been. You simply lack one of the fundamental traits of youth: hope."

Moira then sent him a compassionate smile before leaving the room without a sound, leaving Charles alone with the chaos of his thoughts.  
On the buffet decorated with fine wood marquetry, the big golden clock struck lunchtime.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Charles, I blame myself to put him in such misery...sorry !! It'll be better I swear.......and after that will be worse.........sorrrrrrrrrrrrry !!!
> 
> Little researches :  
> \- In December 24, 1899 : the sun rose at 07:50 (all is on the Net !)  
> \- the glover shop where Raven and Moira go : http://www.causse-gantier.fr/fr/maison-causse/heritage.php


	8. Hope

On the morning of this Tuesday, the 27th of December, 1899, Paris was covered in snow. Not a heavy cloak of snowflakes, no, a thin veil of ice giving the city a sort of white harmony; freezing for a few hours everything in the same hue: the mud of the narrow streets and the cobblestones of the posh boulevards alike.

It was cold.

However, opening the window of his room to taste the freezing air, Erik had the impression that his heart was warming up.

He was happy. Infinitely, perfectly happy. He recognized this feeling of _joie de vivre_ which tinged everything surrounding him with a beautiful golden light, this impression of constantly floating, of being inspired. It was a state he had not experienced nearly since early childhood.

For three days, he had been filling his sketchbooks with enthusiastic drawings. The hardships of his miserable life were not weighing down on him anymore, and he almost looked at people and things with a benevolent eye. _As would do Charles_ , he thought, strangely moved.

Worked had resumed after the Christmas break, and he had spent his morning working his fingers to the bone on one of the worksite of the exposition's pavilions. It was truly cold and the cruel frost bruised his fingers that no gloves covered. He would have to find another job, for winter was nowhere close to become milder and he needed his hands to draw.

Upon his return to Montmartre, exhausted and numb, he stumbled upon the smoldering Angel.

She had scolded him copiously for Saturday night's scandal at the cabaret. Her boss had almost fired her for having let the two killjoys in.

Now, standing on the doorstep and her hands fisted on her hips, she swore loud and clear to never invite him anywhere again. Her voice was raising, playing the betrayed lover.

But faced with Erik's lack of reaction, she suddenly became more affectionate and began to promise - without him asking for anything- to follow him wherever he wanted if he finally gave in to her advances.

She always had with him this half-feigned, half-serious seductive attitude; a little like she was putting out the fillers each time, like she was a wild animal's tamer and he, an exotic and menacing beast.

This little gamealways made him uncomfortable. He apologized for the depraved acts he was - partly- responsible for and began to spurn her advances with the utmost sensitivity: yes, she was sublime, irresistible even, but, he told her with a quip, his heart was no longer his own.

The young woman stared in amazement and followed after him in the staircase to have him confess the name of the whacker buffoon who had stolen the victory from her. Erik burst out laughing, gave her a theatrical hand-kissing and joyfully slammed the door of his apartment, leaving her dumbfounded, faced with this bout of good mood; very unusual for him.

It was past midday, he had to prepare for his afternoon at Drouot.

In the garret, the greatest chaos reigned. Drawing sheets were spread out on each furniture and covered the wooden floor. He decided to tidy a little, or at least to regroup his artworks in a single pile. He simply kept a sketch, a little more detailed than the others, that he hung to the wall next to a poster of the _Cabaret du Chat Noir,_ which he had ripped off one night, from a deserted palisade. The two pictures, one strongly colored and the other, only marked with black charcoal, did not clash on the cracked roughcast wall.

The artist sat on the mattress, his back resting against the wall of the room, and lost himself for a moment in the contemplation of his piece of art.

This portrait, it was Charles.

Charles, as he had left him at the door of the fiacre, after their last kiss, his eyes so full of despair at the thought of their separation that Erik had wanted to hold him back, to take him away, to convince him to flee with him. He had been so beautiful in that moment, so intense in his emotions that the memory of his face had haunted the artist all day.

_I'm so naïve._

Suddenly, he caught himself sinking back into this chronical bitterness which had been strangely silent since his meeting with Charles.

The doubt, the darkness were regaining ground on his soul.

How a young bourgeois man, endowed with a rich and easy life, could accompany him in his dreams of art and bohemia? How could he accept to live in this pitiful poverty, at the mercy of malicious souls who would report them to the police at the slightest suspicion?

He pressed his skull on the decrepit wall and stared at the ceiling of his garret, stripped with large worm-eaten wooden beams, inhaling deeply.

He had to pull himself together and stop running after chimeras.

It had never helped him to believe in miracles. He must not forget this. Images came back, sensations...

_Another December..._

In Warsaw, it was way colder than in Paris.

Despite the passing years, he remembered it as if it were the day before. His childhood city, the few moments of happiness he had managed to keep preciously in his heart came from there. His first tragedy too.

They had call it a Pogrom. A too simple word to name an infinite amount of pains.

This day of December, the common people, their own neighbors, overcome by an uncontrollable hatred, had dragged Jacob in the street before the horrified eyes of the young Erik and his mother.

They lost everything that day. The loving father who had always been a role model for him, the pretty shop vandalized to the point that no material had been salvable, and the small apartment they occupied on the first floor, ransacked. In the space of a few hours, all their memories had been stolen, their familial intimacy trampled upon. His existence had then been nothing but a succession of obstacles, frustrations, loss and grudges.

Why suddenly believe he had a right to happiness? Why believe he would get a respite in this uncertain and crippled with suffering journey of life?

_I did not ask for anything... He came into my life and I... I simply fell in love..._

Erik closed his eyes. He saw again the snowy streets of Warsaw, the blood of his father spread all over the cobblestones before the broken window display of the small shop. He remembered the hand of his mother who was clasping his to the point of hurting, when they had glimpsed the coasts of the United States. And the huge cranes of New York's harbor, this city which should have been their welcoming asylum. Should have been...

He clenched his fists. The fragile light that was Charles' gaze, the memory of his lips, the vibrant contact of his skin, desperately wrestled against the darkness of his memory, blackened by hatred.

Three knocks banged against the wood of his door startled him.

Was it Angel? What did she have yet to tell him? He stood up groaning.

Two other knocks, less strong, resonated before he had reached the entrance.

-I'm coming, calm down! He grumbled.

He had not even had the time to change and to lunch. He could absolutely not be late to Drouot, the boss had kept an eye on him since his little insolence from last week. The visitor could not keep him more than 15 minutes or he would send them packing. He passed on a jacket and reached the old door in four steps.

When he opened the panel, he realized the prestigious auction house would certainly not see him today.

He would without a doubt kiss his job as a clerk there goodbye.

He already did not care.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Charles stood before him.

He was dressed as if he had hastily slipped on the first clothes found in his wardrobe, hair disheveled and cheeks reddened. Had he run from Passy to Montmartre? He did not have time to ask the question out loud.

-Erik, I beg you... Only you can... I beg you, show me!

The young man was short winded.

Erik took gently hold of his hand and made him cross the threshold of the room. He closed the door and took him in his arms. He realized Charles' heart was beating so strongly, he could feel it pound through the layers of their clothes.

He stroked his back, wanting to comfort him. After a few moments, he decided to ask him:

-A _niołku,_ but what can I show you?

In the distance, the thirteen blows announced the time on the bell tower of _Notre Dame de Lorette._

Charles took a gulp of air, he clenched his fists and plunged his eyes in his before answering in a fragile voice.

-Show me how... a man... forces... another man... how he... he... how he buggers him.

His eyes shone with restrained tears.

The silence that followed these few words was deafening. The small room seemed immense then and the sound of the distant bells, bouncing around them, was heavily solemn.

Erik's heart constricted painfully in his chest. The words could be so foul in their vulgarity. Simple words belittling acts they designated and those who engaged in them to the rank of vile perverts. Words, which were condemnations and which ended up dragging innocents, those who only loved each other, in shame. 

He gently grabbed Charles' shoulders and pulled him away from him to better look at him in the eyes. The young man was shaken. Erik hated with all his soul those who had insinuated this venomous apprehension in his mind.

-No, I will not show you this. He answered tenderly.

Tears began rolling down Charles' cheeks. Tears of anger, of frustration that he chased away with a wave of his hand, visibly infuriated by his own weakness.

-Erik, I am not naïve. These desires, I know they're forbidden and I know they will condemn me in society's eyes, the laws', morality's. If it has to be the case then I want to know why! I want you to show me what is so contemptible in the fact of wanting you to... (He closed his eyes and his voice caught in his throat) to... take me...

Erik felt his heart split. It was the confession the most harrowing he had ever heard.

With his thumb, he wiped the path of tears running along the young man's cheeks. He kissed his forehead, softly, then his eyelids, and finally his mouth. It had a salty taste.

-Charles, I will not do this...

He was about to interrupt him but the artist stopped him by kissing him again, then his eyes dove into large blue orbs which had reappeared, veiled in water.

-Let me finish, my angel... I will not fuck you like the last whore in a sailors' brothel; I will not force you like a brute on the pretext that society believes men like you and me are animals...

He took a deep breath and caught Charles' trembling lips again. He finished in a soft but steady voice.

-Charles, if you accept, if you desire it, I will make love to you.

After this declaration, he could only hold his breath.

Charles had remained mute. In the two mirrors of his azure eyes, Erik read pages and pages of emotions, each more heartrending than the last.

 

______________

 

Noises of the street reached, muffled, the small room. This strange atmosphere of reality discordant with the surreal moment he was living.

Charles, without answering, turned to the mattress taking pride of place, intimidating, in the center of the room. The light of the pale sun of December fell on crumpled white sheets, making this poor bed look like a pagan altar.

He left Erik's arms and approached the bed. _It will be there that I..._ He lost himself in his thoughts for a moment.

Only an hour separated him with the quarrel with his sister, Moira's words and his own realization. He desired this man.

And he had to give up on this desire. Because in his world, for Raven's sake, for his future and his reputation, he could not maintain this kind of relationship. But if he had to abandon his yearning for freedom, then he had to follow through with his desire... At least once... Not to regret.

Or rather to regret! To know what he was sacrificing, to know this forbidden embrace, to understand and cherish this memory deep within his heart.

He had heard, read, that the thing was awful, painful, demeaning.

And yet, since this violent desire had awakened in him, he could no longer get rid of these questions from his mind. Was he this much perverted to deliberately want to suffer?

He had rushed to Erik to find answers, because he was the key, the first flame, the one who had ignited the inferno consuming his soul.

Sounds of footsteps.

Bare feet on cracking wooden floor, behind him.

A soft voice, tender, against his nape.

-If you do not wish for it, if you do not want to do it... Began the artist.

Charles turned over swiftly and pressed his hands over Erik's mouth to stop him from continuing. _Not wanting to?_ But on the contrary, this want was devouring him! It was the most imperious need he had ever felt! And it terrified him.

_It's a man._

He breathed in deeply to try to chase away his apprehension and slowly slid his hands over Erik's face; his fingers drew the line of his half-opened lips, then the male angles of his jaw, his neck.

_It's a man. And yet..._

His hands continued down to the artist's waist. He pulled on the lapels of his grey linen shirt to free it from his pants. Then, slipping his palms under the cloth, he caressed: his back, the curve of his spine, his abdominal muscles, his chest.

_It's a man. And yet... I desperately want him._

Erik was observing him, eyes filled with emotion. He simply helped him when he wanted to remove this barrier of clothes from him to be able to explore with his lips this whole territory of warm skin. Charles spent long minutes discovering him,roaming over his skin, admiring his chest carved with lively muscles.

Then, in spite of his feverishness, he began to unbutton his lover's pants. He was shaking and his clumsiness had Erik smiling, who got eventually rid of the last clothes covering him on his own.

They finally fell to the floor.

Erik was now entirely naked before him, his long member standing from the shadow of his lower abdomen. He was impossibly beautiful and very intimidating despite the look of pure tenderness he was giving him.

Charles no longer dared moving.

Erik took his hand then and brought it to his lips.

He kissed the palm, his fingers, then undoing the buttons of his sleeve, uncovered his wrist. Under the thin creamy skin, his pulse was quivering; the artist brushed it with the tip of his tongue. He did the same with his other hand, then slid his suspenders from his shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt and his pants. They sank along his legs followed by the hands of his lover caressing voluptuously the curves of his bottom and thighs.

When his hardness was released from the constrained fabric, Charles shuddered. Erik was now on his knees. He took off his shoes then looked up at him.

The young man was oscillating between apprehension and desire. He was trembling but it was not from the cold, even if the room, probably unheated for two days, was almost freezing. It was so new for him to be looked at with such intensity. He felt devoured by shyness and boldness, master and vassal in the same body. How could he not have been lost in the midst of this chaos.

Erik invited him to kneel on the mattress, which he did rather stiffly, very upright, hands flat on his thighs like a young pupil waiting for the teacher's directives.

He thought back to their past caresses, in this very same room, this very same mattress. He remembered that then, after his first coyness, everything had been so natural, so evident. The sensual gestures had come instinctively to him, guided by his only desire. It was strangely difficult now to find this spontaneity back.

After a fleeting kiss, Erik smiled at him and stood up.

-Make yourself warm in the bed, I'm joining you immediately, I just need to... find something.

The artist set off in search of his mysterious "something" in the nooks of the garret.

Charles swallowed and slid timidly under the cold fabric of the sheets, he drew, at the same time, the coarse blanket over him. He was transfixed.

Without the presence of his lover, without his hands on his skin, it was as if all the heat had left him...

Erik, at the other side of the room, was turning the content of a wooden trunk frenetically upside down.

-Ah! There it is! I knew I still had it!

He brandished proudly a small transparent vial and came back to their bed with this loot, which he placed delicately on the ground before slipping, in turn, under the sheets smiling broadly. Charles' anxiety cleared somewhat. This smile was infectious.

When touching him, the artist's brows furrowed and he exclaimed:

-But you're freezing! Pardon me. I am the worst of hosts.

He enveloped him in his arms then and began to rub him like one would do a child coming back from a race in the snow.  With the exception that, in addition to this, Erik was covering him in sonorous kisses, laughing between eachone.

Charles was immediately overcome by a recomforting joy and he soon too played at seizing control in this affectionate bedlam. He was certainly not the most athletic of the both of them but he intended to display a significant amount of energy. He even ended up toppling Erik on the bed. They were wrapped in the sheets, disheveled, warmed up for good.

-And what is this wonder vital to the consummation of my virtue? He asked between two laughs. He meant the small vial.

The answer did not come right away.

Their childish fight became calmer, more sensual.

Erik's hands needed only to graze against him to kindle the skin intensely. They lingered on his back, moving down lower and wrung groans of pleasure from him when they grasped the muscled flesh of his behind possessively.

Against his lower abdomen, the artist's hard member caressed his. Both their shafts were deliciously kneaded by their embrace. This sensation of quasi-masturbation had his head spin a little. He tangled his legs to these of his lover, hugged him harder, wanting to get lost in him. He had no other will but his instinct. And this one was ordering him to give himself entirely to this man, to be able to tear his soul from the prison of interdictions and condemnations where he had let it be imprisoned.

The adventurous hands roaming over him avidly became more delicate. Charles felt his pulse accelerate violently when Erik insinuated very slowly a finger between the two globes of his buttocks to brush over his intimacy.

The wave of desire that suddenly overwhelmed him gave him vertigo. He gripped his lover's shoulders to try to regain his footing.

At this gesture, Erik stopped his caresses and gazed into Charles' eyes.

The artist's palm came to cover his cheek, with his thumb, he drew the curve of his lips. His grey-green eyes were drowned in fever.

He finally answered the question the young bourgeois man had already totally forgotten.

-It's an oil. It allows to facilitate my... coming... in you... so I do not to hurt you. He took a breath before asking, uncertain :

-Do you still wish for me to show you?

 

____________

 

Charles had timidly agreed and Erik, leaving for an instant the heat of the sheets, had risen again to take the small vial, open it and coat his palm and his fingers with this slightly scented liquid.

The smell of orange tree reminded him of intoxicating evenings in Italy. He had retrieved this luxurious lubricant from a courtesan from Florence who had become fond of him and had let him stay for a few months. The elegant lady had a whole medicine cabinet of aphrodisiacal products in her boudoir, the windows of which overlooked the Palazzo Vecchio's square.

Erik had served a little as a gigolo for her, a little as a messenger and sometimes as a confidant. In exchange, he had had room and board. Unfortunately, a bad cough had carried the beautiful redhead off a bit quickly, and the apprentice engraver had had only the time take his old clothes, a few pieces of jewelry of value immediately resold and this small vial, before being thrown out by the new owner.

He realized he had never used the precious oil since his arrival in France.

The few encounters he had here and there had not been ideal for this. No, here, in Charles' arms, it was about making love. The act itself of giving pleasure, of giving yourself to another before even thinking about your own person, was a revelation for him.

He extracted himself from his thoughts and turned around.

His young lover was observing him silently.

The weak rays of the December sun fell on his naked skin, giving to it delicate porcelain reflections of which someone would have enhanced the most appetizing details in soft red. His erect member, the nub of his nipples, the pulp of his lips shone in the pale light of the day.

Erik invited him to lie on his back.

Charles laid down on the white sheet, his chest rising in long breaths. His gaze did not leave this of the artist and, bending his knees slightly, he slowly spread his thighs, revealing himself completely.

His posture could have been obscene, it was only the most innocent and pure of pictures of sensuality.   

This offered body attracted Erik like a magnet. He did not resist coming to taste the skin on the hollow of half-opened thighs, then his member which he licked for a long time before getting back up the valley of his torso to finally kiss him on the mouth.

-I will first slide my fingers in you, for your body to adjust to being opened this way and, when you feel like you're ready, then... I will take you.

The young man shivered.

Erik let for a moment his oily palm linger over his hardness to make him feel the erotic caress. The oil run in slow drops along his phalanx, fleeing on Charles' burning skin, smearing the inside of his thighs and sliding over his testicles. A shuddering sigh escaped his young lover.

The artist could not contain a groan of frustration; his own need was literally devouring him and his blood was rushing from his heart to the hollow of his groin with an intoxicating violence. He breathed in, determined to tame his desire. 

He ventured a little lower and finally brushed with his damp forefinger the tender rim of his intimacy. He massaged softly the ring of trembling flesh. A first time, then a second, with more insistence.

The young man could not control his breathing, he was shaking like a leaf.

The artist kissed him for a long time then, to reassure him, to calm him down. When hefelt that his heart had settled a little, he resumed his exploration.

Hiscaressbecamefirmer, untilhecouldenter the narrow ring of muscles whichcontractedabruptly

-Calm down my Angel, I swear to youitwillbepleasurable…

Charles openedhiseyelids. He gulped down. Hiseyesbore intothose of Erik. He appearedsuddenlyso brave, offeringhimhisvirtue and hissoul in this gaze.Deliveringhimhis trust. The artistshiveredwithdoubt. _Am I worthy of it?_ He worried.

His hesitation must have shown on his face because the young man smiled timidly at him and spreading his legs further, invited him to continue.

Erik managedthen to buryhisfingerfurther. He gave a slightback and forth motion, testing the resistance, probing the reaction of the twitchingflesh.

Thenslowly, veryslowly, heslipped a second phalanx in the ring moistwithoil. Charles made a small noise of complaint.

Erik kissed his temple right away, whispering sweet words to him. His lover exhaled deeply

-Keepgoing… He breathedafter a few moments.

Patiently, Erik preparedhim, his long fingersmassaging and carefully stretching hisflesh to allowhisstillvirginintimacy to accommodatehim more easily.

Progressively, hefelt the resistance fade away. He coatedonce againhis hand with the preciousoil and could insert a thirdfinger. Charles accompanied this penetration with a voluptuous movement of his hips. He was finally surrendering himself to pleasure.

He was of a troubling beauty, thus offered to sensuality. Beads of sweat were running on the hollow of his throat. From his half-opened lips escaped a gasp, mixture of apprehension and arousal. From his member, tensed with desire were already pearling milky drops.

 _He's made for rapture_ , Erik thought, fascinated. He had been created to be led to this state of surreal grace where the body is no more than an echo of sensations.

It was enchanting to contemplate him, lying there on this makeshift bed, his hands tensing in the sheets, his body unconsciously coming to meet the artist's fingers to bring them deeper in him

-.. Do it... now.

This impatient supplication managed to tear Erik from his admiration. It's with the mind foggy with emotion that he put an end to this preliminary caress and reopened the small oil vial to coat his painfully hardened member. His engorged shaft twitched at the contact of his hand covered inshiny liquid alone.

Charles watched him do it. A slight fear could be read in his clear eyes faced withthe intimidating manifestation of the artist's desire.

The young man moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and asked shyly

-How should I... position myself for you to...

Erik, overcome withtenderness, slipped between his thighs and covered Charles' body with his. He did not want him to have a single fear, he wanted to give him only infinite pleasure, to make this first time the most ideal of embraces, and, selfishly perhaps, to face him not to miss one second of his discovery of ecstasy

 _-You're absolutely perfect, let me guide you,_ he purred in his ear before nibbling on his neck _, and I love you beyond everything you can imagine,_ he did not dare to confess.He kissed him languorously, losing himself a little in this kiss.

Finally, with a caress along his leg, he invited Charles to bend his knee further, to lift his hips a little more.

He grasped his shaft firmly to guide it to the offered intimacy still shiny with oil.

His glans first tested the entrance, then, with a slight movement of his hips, he entered him. Charles held his breath; his cheeks had reddened. Erik waited an instant, giving him time to get used to the sensation. He felt sweat beading on his shoulders, the effort of holding back his passion was an intoxicatingtorture. A small nod gave him the permission to plunge a little more in this delicious tightness.

Soon, he was fully seated. The pleasure of feeling his member entirely compressed like this, the tension of his muscles stretched under the effort of holding back his passionmade him dizzy for a moment. He understood then that this moment would mark his soul for life.

Charles had not for one instant detached his gaze from his. The blue of his irises had taken on the hue of the darkest abysses. He was panting, his breath humid.

Erik pulled out slowly, then entered him again in a long broad movement. The young man groaned deeply and arched his back to better welcome him in.

Thus begun the slow rhythm of their embrace. Sublime fundamental swell. The artist, as if in trance, watched, fascinated, the body of his young lover rise as a lascivious wave with each push of his hips.

Charles could never have imagined, guessed, that such sensations existed, that ecstasy could be so intense, so strong, so sweet, that it could transform him to that extent. If he had been able to understand earlier that his body desired only that, to be offered thus, discovered thus, stripped bare by a man and touched, captivated thus, perhaps he would have seized this liberty earlier, but how... Without Him, without that miraculous meeting, he probably would have never dared to face his own demons.

 _Make love._ Erik was making love to him, and he felt the echo of this feeling resonate in him and fill him completely.

A sigh of voluptuousness, barely subdued by vacillating remains of modesty, escaped from these wet lips. In this moment, in this garret, Erik was Prometheus, the bearer of the living flame. He was the one, unique, who gave him pleasure. He felt him flooding in him, drink his skin, possess his body and this possession was, for the young man, a liberation. Liberation of a desire buried for years.

Charles let himself be guided in this erotic dance, he answered to movements, followed the melody of this embrace, slower, sweeter then suddenly quicker. All his body was like a raft floating on a sea swelled by the storm to come, hugging the calm and wide flow wherever it led.

And he saw Erik losing himself, no longer thinking, accompanying him in this ocean of sensations, existing only through them.

In this small room warm with their love, only the sounds of the sheets crumpling, of caressing skins and whispers of pleasures were left.

The artist could not stop himself from plucking with a kiss each sound escaping the lips of the young man. Stretching his muscles further, he seemed to want to bury himself in him even deeper.

Responding to this desire, Charles tied his legs around his waist, and Erik then, grasped with a firm hand his hip to take him a little harder.

At this moment, his young lover gasped in surprised and his muscles tensed. But it was not the effect of pain. Far from it. A violent shock of pleasure had just gone through him, blurring his vision, electrifying his whole body, almost tearing a cry out of him.

Reflexively, he gripped Erik's arm as if to anchor himself to reality. The latter stopped moving, worried of having hurt him.

_-No, don't stop, I beg you don't stop..._

Charles' eyes were alight with fever, he pulled the artist to him, almost savagely and kissed him deeply all the while initiating a new movement.

_-.. Erik... it's... you... you're... Continue..._

Their embrace became deeper then, more passionate, more chaotic as the gulf of their orgasm grew closer. They were so close, each their nerves, overexcited with pleasure, were pulling them together toward this delicious void.

The artist felt Charles arch suddenly, his back forming a magnificently sensual curve. He threw his head back, a long moan ripped from his tensed throat and his orgasm overwhelmed him, spilling out on his chest.

At this incredibly erotic sight, Erik could only follow after him, needing only one push to feel his member bury one last time as deep as this burning flesh allowed and get release in it.

They remained tightly entwined then, until their consciousness returned to their bodies, until the world around them became tangible once again.

They could have died in this instant. They would have both accepted it with no regrets. The moment they had just lived encapsulated all eternities.

 

 (...)

 

 

After this embrace, after the boiling of their blood had subsided, the two lovers had remained lying in each other's arms.

Exhausted by pleasure, Charles was savoring a state of complete appeasement. This peace of the soul wasas much due to the new impression of liberty he had just discovered, as to the profound feeling of belonging to the one who loved him.

Because he now knew that he was desired, loved for the first time of his life. It was undeniable, undisputable. Strangely, he had not feared for one moment that Erik would throw him out of his bed once his desire sated. He had not considered for one second that all of this might be the cruel trap of a notorious seducer set to squeeze out some money from him. He had offered himself to this man with the utmost trust, convinced that the love he had read in Erik's eyes was the only promise he needed to let himself be possessed.

They were both curled up in the silence enveloping their refuge under the eaves. The place was bathed inwarm light, lightly gilded. No curtains came to tarnishthe sun rays of December beating down still, against the panes of the single window. Lulled by Erik's breathing, Charles, who was nestled against his chest, finally fell asleep.

The artist felt the breath of his young lover slow down gently and his muscles loosen. Inexplicably, he did not feel the heavy and guilt-laden satiety which always succeeded carnal pleasure for him. He did not feel either the dark impression of having released a rage of flesh, a thirst of possession, something violent which ordinally gave him the taste of fleeting power over someone else. Usually, once his need was satisfied, his only haste was to run away from his partner of the moment. For him, there had always been something sordid about staying in contact with a body which had only been a receptacle to his frustrations.

But there, in the midst of the appeasing chaos that was their makeshift bed, Erik felt bathed in an undefinable sensation of serenity. In his arms, Charles was putting his sleep in his hands. He was entrusting him to watch over him, over his body as much as his soul. It filled him with happiness, hope and the exalted feeling that he had become the one in whom one can believe, the one who protects and who knows how to love. The one who is loved. What Charles had seen in him, what had persuaded him to offer himself to him, Erik did not dare name it. He still had trouble admitting someone this exceptional could have chosen him.

Unable to fall asleep, he let the minutes flow by and transform into hours.

 

 (...)

 

At the end of the afternoon, the two lovers finally emerged in the brisk cold.

They were surprised by the beginning of the night falling on the Parisian streets. In the artist's garret, they had not seen the minutes go by, nor even the light grow dim, deeply lost as they were in their sweet passion.

But it was not enough still; if they could have stopped time, they would have. A few hours, a few minutes more, to become intoxicated with pleasure again before Lent, which would reach them all too soon.

They walked side by side along the narrow streets, unable to resist holding hands, to stop in dark corners to kiss. They were reckless.

Worst: dangerously careless.

But they could not fight against the imperious need they felt to touch, to keep this contact which gave a reality to their feelings. It was a much more powerful force than them, much more important, almost vital.

Despite the sidelong glances, they were holding hands and they threw happiness to their sad and too dark lives, not caring about dancing above the snakes' pit.

At the corner of a winding street, barely lit by the nearby boulevard, Erik seized Charles by the waist and dragged him between two silent doorsteps. The young man immediately kissed him, pouring all the desperate energy of a sailor leaving for months of sea.

-When will I see you again? They both asked at the same time. They laughed at their shared impatience. Charles lowered his gaze, he passed his palms over the lapel of the artist's frayed coat.

-In the next few days, I will be monopolized by a ball given on the occasion of the new year at our mansion of Passy. I'm afraid of being unable to free up the smallest minute to meet you, and upon this evening depends so many things...

He did not say more, not wanting to introduce Erik, this man with an artist's soul, whom he glorified a little, in his world's quagmire of petty schemes. But he was ashamed that this one excuse would keep him from seeing the one he could not go without anymore. All his life as a rentier bourgeois was now looking so fake, so insignificant... After that. After what he had offered him, after what he had received...

The artist embraced him. He buried his nose, his lips up against his ear, in the cool locks of his brown hair.

-I will find a way to see you... He whispered to him.

Charles closed his eyes and said a silent prayer: _we will find a way, if you are by my side, I will remain free..._

 

This time, Erik did not accompanyCharles to the fiacre. He had preferred to leavehim in the protective darkness of the alley, stealing him one last kiss, holding his hand one second and releasing it to let him regain the harsh light of the boulevard.

The young man jumped into a parked car near a theatre. Just as he climbed into the vehicle, he turned back toward Erik who had remained hidden at the corner of two streets and sent him one of his smiles which gave such a particular shine to the blue of his eyes. Erik did not need to see that shine, he pictured it perfectly, he had spent nights drawing it.  

The coachman roused the horses with a word and the fiacre drove into the boulevard, taking his precious passenger to another world.

The artist finally decided to climb back up the hill of Montmartre. _It's suddenly very cold_ , he noted, _as if, my love, you had taken the light away with you._

The wind of December was hurtling down the barely cobbled paths and insinuated in the folds of his coat. The rare passersby wore layers upon layers of rags and moth-eaten shawls. Their shoes were probably filled with newspapers to repel the blistering cold. Erik buried his fists further in his pockets.

He soon arrived near the square where the small, dilapidated house where he lived was situated.

 _A_ _ball at our mansion of Passy.._. It was what had said Charles.

There was such a distance between them. An ocean between his grimy bohemian corner and the splendors of a bourgeois life in the nice parts of town, thought the artist discouragingly. _There is so many impossibles between him and me..._

 

 

 

At the corner of a closed shop, a shape was standing in the half-light of a public house's sign. They followed Erik with their eyes, when, lost in his thoughts, he passed the doorstep of the small house.

A smile wrinkled with scars animated the not so agreeable face of Azazel.

His boss would be happy: with such indiscretions, he had something to compel the rich bastard to accept everything he wanted. Largely satisfied, he lifted up the lapel of his blood-red coat stained with mud and sunk back into the shadows of twilight.

 

 

 

In his garret, Erik, warmed by his inspiration, had lit up his oil lamp and prepared to a night of drawing.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first chapter with smut in it !!! True, in English it is very difficult to find the right words, I always feel that I am too metaphorical. I hope you enjoyed it anyway !
> 
> And a looooot of thanks to Amy, my first beta, who helped me to find all my mistakes ! She's was patient with me !!  
> And now with a brand new translation by Autheane who is a real poet, this chapter is just perfect my friend : THANKS A LOT ! 
> 
> The little historical notes :  
> \- Warsaw's Pogrom happened in December 1881. During this riot, a lot of jewish families were thrown to the streets, many of them exiled to the United States : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warsaw_pogrom_(1881)  
> \- Passy was a little district in the West of Paris. In 1899, it was a mix of upper class big mansions and small cosy houses. It looked like an urban village. The distance between Passy and Montmartre (which is on a hill north of Paris) is not very huge, but you still have to walk for a good 30 minutes.


	9. A way to see him.

December 31, New Year's Eve.

Five days.

It had taken him five endless days and a miracle!  
Erik still couldn't get over it yet.

Even now, even in front of the wide doors of the Xavier's impressive mansion, even in his tailored black coat too narrow at his elbows, knees and shoulders, even with those varnished shoes that he had a hard time keeping bright during the long march he had made in the muddy streets of Paris.  
Erik still could not believe his good fortune!

Since when was he able to keep some good luck in his dark fate? And for what ? To allow him to attend one of the most exclusive balls of the capital?

  
He was already very late. The bells singsang 11 o'clock when he walked along the walls of Passy's little cemetery, a few streets away from the mansion. Erik had walked from the hill of Montmartre, crossed the beautiful avenues and the rich boulevards, and finally reached the western suburbs of Paris, which still retained some country air.

It had taken him a long time to come here and more time to come to the decision to go there.  
He was devoured with anxiety. Or rather it was a sort of vicious apprehension, as if he was going to confront the jury of a inquisition's tribunal. There was a mix of challenge and curiosity as well to be there !  
He was going to play a very funny game tonight, and all that for one single reason ...  
_To see my prince charming_ , he thought, smiling.  
He had somewhat Cinderella's role in this incredible adventure. And his fairy godmother was not a chubby grandmother but a cabaret dancer: Angel.

 

After the unreal afternoon he had spent in Charles's arms, his whole life had become radically complicated.  
He was dismissed without further trial from the auction house. The blow was hard, he hadn’t even been given a month's wage or notice. Where to find the rent now? The good old pal Logan had slipped him the address of a shabby hotel where, it seems, they did not ask much for a decent room. He had promised himself to take a look at it in case worst came to worst. After all it was a well-known system of the poorest: moving in the middle of the night when there was no money to pay the owners.  
During the past four days, he had spent his afternoons scouring the city to find work.There was nothing really hiring, except the most painful, underpaid manual  labor.  
In the end, he'd only found closed doors and some "come back after the holidays, we might have something".

  
So, on Saturday night, he was back to Montmartre with less than a penny in his pocket. There, on the steps of his garret, he had found Angel in tears.

Her defeated young face, reminded him of a long gone feeling : compassion. He sat confortingly beside her and listen to her misfortune.  
She told him about a man named Sebastian Shaw.

She said he was one of her former lovers, that the man had promised her the world and beyond, but now that he had found a more suitable bride he had throw her back to the gutter. This prick just tell her he needed now to have back some explicit letters he had addressed to her some times ago.

Ah yes, she was going to give them back, and she was even threatening to stab this _hijo de perra_!

There was a ball, she said, for the New Year's Eve, where this Shaw was going to. She wished, in order to avenge herself, that the letters should be handed to him precisly that evening, in front of the crowd and the future bride, it would certainly make a great impression.  
But she didn't know how to do it.

"I mean look at me,” She gestured to her shabby petticoats, “Even if I could afford a new dress I could never get into _Xavier's Mansion de la rue de Passy_ ?" 

_Xavier_!  
Erik had opened his eyes so wildly that Angel saw incredulity instead of shock, she was vexed in a fraction of a second!

  
 "Hey! What? You think I couldn't get my hands on some rich lad ! Sebastian is rich as fuck, he's a well-off asshole you know, all that money comes to him from America!

"Where's this ball going to be?" Erik asked, still amazed by the astonishing coincidence.

"Passy's street, in an incredible place, with only one of their forks, I could stop sleeping around for six months!"

  
Someone appeared behind them.  
"Da, but if you not work, I don't need to feed you." Azazel's dry voice cleared the air.

Erik frowned. He could find somewhat amusing the popular vulgarity of Angel, but the arid monosyllables phrases made solely by her pimp instantly raised his hair's arms.

  
Nevertheless, Azazel here, was a gift too.  
In the end, Erik interfered in the beginning of the dispute between Angel and her Russian pimp and  managed to seize his chance: he would be the messenger of Angel !

  
Indeed, it would have been very difficult for her to go to this posh event dedicated exclusively to English speakers in Paris. Erik, on the other hand, spoke perfect English, and Azazel, strangely arranging, had even assured him that he could lend him a costume and get an invitation.  
Why had the pimp split these bounties? How had he obtained the precious sesame in such a short time?

  
Erik did not care much now! He was in front of the gates of Charles's home, he had the attire to enter into his world, he was going to see him again, and that was already a thousand times more than anything he could have hoped for!  
It was a thousand times more than anything he had ever had ...  
...  
That door was impressive.

He stood there in front of the enormous wooden door leaf flanked by two pompously classical pillars.  
The mansion of the Xavier family.  
What would his mother have said by seeing him here, in top hat and chin lifted not to break the starched collar of his fine shirt maintained by an elegant purple silk tie?  
In him, at that moment, were opposed modesty and pride, hostility, and boldness.

 _My son, you deserve more than our poverty. You are so gifted, you will live a happy life, I know._ She had repeated to him in their gentle mother tongue.  
Every day during her slow agony, he had heard this sentence. Last hopes of a loving mother.  
He had been thinking of her since the day before. And even more so now that he was so close to going through the great door of this world that he had been executing for years.  
He saw her so well, her courageous mother, become a ghost so emaciated that she seemed to disappear in the middle of the little bed of their miserable furnished room in the Bronx. She, who had supported everything for the two of them during years.  
After the Warsaw Pogrom, with a single trunk as luggage and his only will to make them survive, Eddie had them take a boat for the United States.

  
Over there, the land of liberty, they had found above all misery and exploitation.  
The factory which employed his mother was undermined by the strikes. The poor Jewish workers prevented from complaining under threat of being thrown to the door (and expelled from the country) lived in terror, between the bullying of the foremen and the hatred of the other employees . It wasn't the few pennies that Erik brought back from his apprenticeship as a typographer that could gave them a living.

Exhaustion had overcome the tenacity of his courageous Polish mother. She had left him orphan. He had just turned 19 and had nothing, except a fierce hatred for everything that represented the tyranny of the richs. Erik wanted revenge.  
Diseroire, pitiful vengeance, which had not returned him his beloved mother: a fire launched in the office of the boss, Klaus Smith. The shabby fat-cat who didn't want to receive him when he came to implore a few pennies to pay for the care of the sick Eddie. He remembered the flames and the cries. He had fled to Europe afterwards.

....  
"Who should I announce, sir?"  
Erik was drawn from his gloomy memories by the clear voice of a footman who was half-frozen in the embrasure of the great door. From inside, he could hear the sounds of conversations, plucked laughters, and of the discreet notes of a few classical instruments.

Erik held out the invitation with an affected coldness.  
The man nodded as he read the inscribed name of an elegant line of pen on the gilt-edged cardboard. Tonight he was Max Eisenhart, a dashing American guest at the New Year's Ball of the Xavier family.  
He will hand over Angel's four letters to the man named Shaw. Little did he care for this futile mission. He wanted to see Charles.  
With deference, the servant invited him in , another  one took his hat and cloak.  
Erik readjusted his jacket and made his first steps in the big hall as one enters the lion's den.  
He advanced into the gurgling rooms of guests. Some followed him with more or less animosity. He did not dwell on why.

The immense rooms on the ground floor were shimmering with gold and riches. The crystal chandeliers reflected the flashes of electric light on decorations, stucco and carved woodwork. There were, in the main reception room, paintings to the ceiling, the rococco frames rivaling in bad taste with the nymphs in delicate biscuit that adorned each console covered with fine porphyry.  
The carpets, which usually had to cover the floor, had to be rolled up and removed, leaving the beautiful parquet floor exposed. The silk robes of the ladies floated on it, and the heels of the gentlemen were slamming. The rooms were incredibly crowded, it smelled heady perfumes mixed with the fragrance of pricey champagnes. The guests look around behind their feather fans and through their decorative monocles.

  
Far from being amazed, Erik suddenly had a very disagreeable thrill, a presentiment that flowed like a drop of acid in his throat. Why had he insisted on coming here, in this trap of perfidy? Why did he decide to participate in this masquerade? A disguise, a false name! But it looked like a bad fad comedy! He had no place here! He did not want to have his place here!  
Charles. But how could his angel be there among those ridiculous puppets?

  
Erik was already fdenounced his absurd caprice which had led him to this ball, this event which was viscerally odious to him.  
The hubbub of the crowd quickly became oppressive. In search of a little calm, he joined a large canopy filled with exotic plants. The palms and other varieties of flowering shrubs dropped their heavy branches over rare wooden benches covered with soft cushions. There were few people in this plush winter garden.

A voice made him turn round.

Strong, confident, that of a young man sure of himself, belonging to a higher class.  
Who would have guessed that this voice was much more beautiful still, when it was altered with pleasure.

 _Charles._  
He was talking courteously to a splendid blonde lady dressed all in white even in her swan feathers orned headdress. She was the center of all the attentions and especially that of a rustic and engrossed man that Erik recognized to be Kurt Marko, the stepfather of Charles, whom he had seen previously at the auction house.

  
What if this man recognized him? The risk was real.

  
Erik could not help staring at his lover. _His lover._ The sweetness of their afternoon of lovemaking came back to him like a ghost of caress.

  
Charles stood there, back at him, a few steps away, arguing with an elegant ease.  
He was dressed in an impeccably cut black coat, the folds of the stiff cloth of which resembled the rising virility of his shoulders and the voluptuous arch of his lowback. His hair had been slightly shortened, and, brought back in the fashion of the time, they no longer curled over his neck, which was now scarcely visible, white and soft skin above the tight neck. _He is so handsome, so different, this other side of him that I don't yet know ..._ Thought Erik.  
Charles stood straight, noble, confident. Everything in his attitude said that he was where life had intended him, that he was a young master promised a bright future in the higher spheres of society.  
_And not to live with only love and poor bread in an bohemian slum..._ Erik sighed. He had been so ridiculous to even dare to come here, ridiculous to believe in all this. It was giving way to illusions and that he could not afford. He should have expected that his modesty would catch up with him among those people of this inaccessible world. He wanted to run away, it was the best thing to do. To have come so far was a mistake, a puerile caprice.

Erik was already on his heels and was about to leave when a thunderous "Excuse me sir" made him stop and turn around.  
Marko hailed him loudly, and all the guests in the room paid attention to him.  
The games were done, he was going to be unmasked.

Erik straightened his shoulders and, resolved to confront the pedants as a worthy son of an honest man, he advanced with the assurance of a duelist in a fight to the death.

He met Charles's gaze who hadn't succeeded in concealing his surprise; his eyes showed the most perfect astonishment, and, also, something like ... fear. This somewhat disconcerted Erik.

  
"Good evening," Marko began. "Excuse me for this eagerness to keep you among us, but it seemed to me that we had already met somewhere, perhaps in some notable institutions, sir?"  
Charles came out of his bewilderment to reply hurriedly for him.

"Oh I think not Kurt, Erik Lehnsherr is ... a promising artist that I discovered recently, he ... comes back from a trip to Italy for his _Prix de Rome_. Erik, I'm delighted to present you my stepfather Kurt Marko, and Alexander Summers, an American compatriot.  
Erik greeted them with a movement of the head and Kurt took advantage of it to get up and turning to the beautiful lady, still lying on the sofa, he added:

"Ah, if you are an artist, I must introduce to you the divine Mrs. Emma Frost, wife of Edgar Frost-"

  
"-The Enlightened Art Collector!" Erik cut as he bent over his lips on the white-gloved hand that the icy lady was holding out to him. He could thank his good memory. Edgar Frost made numerous purchases in the prestigious sales of Drouot. His little gallantry had reached his goal: the audience seemed conquered. But Charles's presentation left a bitter taste in his throat. He did not know what he had expected but probably not that. He was not even a friend, just a _promising artist_.

Charles had approached Erik, the tension can be read in all his attitude. Their elbows brushed. This simple contact had the effect of an electric shock.

"Good ! You are not afraid of traveling then, that is how youth must be formed to a man, that is what I exhause myself to allways telling Charles! Head’s always in a book, but he doesn't know a thing, I half think that if he weren't so rebellious he’d be some monk!" said Marko with a vulgar laugh.

  
_This man was naturally disagreeable_ , found Erik. With nothing but his way of talking about his stepson, as if he was not in the room, when he was a yard away from him ...

Charles shot his stepfather an exasperate look. His blue eyes had gained an intensity that Erik didn't know. The blonde boy on his right, probably wanting to defuse the palpable tension between the two men, finally opened his mouth.

"Charles, I cannot thank you enought for sending me Armando Munoz. Truly this man is precious to have around. He is a valuable wise man."  
Marko seemed to tinker at the mention of this Armando.

  
Charles did not give him time to react and, turning to Erik, said in an horrible snobish tone:  
"My dear Erik, I don't think you have seen the remarkable collection of old engravings we keep here, if you have a few moments I will take you to the library."

Erik, bitterly upset, nearly said "no" to send him to Hell with his stupid manners. But somewhere within him, his mother's voice urged him to make an effort and show that he knew how to stand in good society.

  
"My dear Charles, it would be with great pleasure if I weren't afraid to look a frightful bore to Madam Frost by slipping away so quickly, when we didn't even exchange two words," he replied heightly.

  
Charles gave him a forced smile that did not go up to his eyes and, turning to the rest of the little group, he chattered in a funny tone."Will you forgive me, Madam, for my eagerness to deprive you of M. Lehnsherr, Art calls us!

She lifted her  artistically drawn eyebrows, half-sulky half-jaded and, with a elegant hand gesture, gave them leave by adding emphatically:  
"If it was brief, but so charming to see, Mr. Lehnsherr. I hope we met again so I do not say _adieu_ but _au revoir_ ".

"Madam." Erik said, bending almost reverently. Then he turned to the two men."Sirs."

And he went out of the canopy after Charles, who slipped quickly through the crowd. The guests, stared at Erik with a strange smile. They did not recognize him but for in case he was the rich heir of some exotic fortune they smile falsely. What's a repugnant world he thought.  
Charles almost run before him, and he followed him into the hall. Finally they reached a wide door which the young man opened quickly and pulled Erik inside.

  
Once the door was closed, Charles turned towards him, his expression no longer bore a trace of the jaded morgue he sported a minute in face of his stepfather. He actually seemed in a state.

  
"Damn, Erik, but what are you doing here?

It was like a slap but Erik did not flinch.

  
"You're crazy to come here, you don't realize that! These people are ... they can ... It's madness, what were you thinking!"

  
"I wanted to see you," Erik finally replied in a chilling voice.  
Charles looked at him, mute a second and his mouth open. Somewhat calmed, he resumed in a more resolute tone.

"It is not a place where we can just see each other . It's neither the place nor the moment for that matter. This ball is more important than you can understand."

  
"Of course, I can't understand! From the quagmire where I live I am quite incapable of touching your celestial problems, my dear!"Erik replied, cynical.

Charles seemed not to hear his sharp reply. He walked up and down the little room, passing his hand through his hair with nervousness. The kind of office, filled with jumble, where they had landed, was too small to contain the anger of two grown men. The electric atmosphere, in such a small space, could make anyone claustrophobic.

Charles continued his rambling in a low voice, as for himself. "It's my fault, I should have explained that to you, but I didn't think that you ...".

  
Erik was boiling. Out of patience, he grabbed Charles' arm to prevent him from moving anymore.  
"What did you not think?! That I wouldn't come to see the life you lead, your true life, the one you don't hide, the one that's not shameful. Are you ashamed of me?"

Charles disengaged himself of Erik's grasp. Flames in the eyes.  
"No ! No, that's not it ! But Hell Erik, everything does not always revolve around you! It's not always you who is attacked when I try to unravel the problems of MY life! It's not all about class struggle Erik!"

"I seriously doubt it-well okay then, what it is, if not that? What's put you in a frenzy because I dared to come to your little poshy party !?"

Charles breathed with frustration. He passed his hand over his face and seemed to realize at last that he had not reacted in the best and kindest way. He took a step towards him, then another, uncertain.  
"Look Erik, I’m sorry, it’s not you- well, i’m just surprised is all. I didn’t expect to see you here and ... This ball is important, I know it will seem absolutely ridiculous for you, but a good part of my future will be decided tonight. I must not make mistakes ... there are as many obstacles to avoid as chances to seize in this kind of events."

  
Charles looked for his eyes. He seemed to want to find something in him. Reassurance? Hope ? In his very blue gaze, Erik saw himself in as in a mirror and it suddenly made him feel uncomfortable. Guilt has insinuated itself into his mind saturated with anger. As always blinding, rage had taken precedence over his reason. It was the eternal echo of all his regrets. Would he still be the one who comes to destroy everything ... Was he just that?

  
A gust of anguish won him. The room was too small, the moment too big. Febrile, he took Charles's hands in his and carried his palms to his lips.

"I am an obstacle ... for you?" He asked him in a fragile voice.

  
Before him, blue eyes filled with affection, and Charles' look was so sad that Erik forgot all rancor in an instant. Their clothes were so stiff that the sound of the folding fabric took the voice of constraint in his ears. Charles was now almost in his arms. The heat of his body was barely perceptible under the barrier of their evening outfits. Erik wanted to feel his naked skin, this contact would have reassured him. These clothes were, for him, armour intended to separate them.He should not have come. He should not have faced that reality.

Charles took his face between his open hands and, from his cherry lips, murmured soft words :  
"Oh Erik if you knew ... After tonight everything will be different. After tonight, I will be free and-"  
And he kissed him, passionately, immediately seeking to possess his mouth, to deepen their kiss with his tongue, to pull him in this embrace with all his strength. It was awkward and raw,with a taste of despair that frightened Erik but its intensity was mermerising.

  
The door handle turned with a dry grating sound. And the two lovers parted suddenly, breathing panting. A young lady appeared in the frame, and with her, the noise of the evening returned like an intruder in the small stifling room.

She was a beauty, undeniably. Firstly Erik noticed the beautiful oval of her face, haloed by graceful blond curls restrained by a carmine ribbon. Her feminine forms barely emerged from adolescence were molded in a dress tailored in fine sky-blue silk. Her chest was gracefully concealed by a light lace and her round arms covered by long white satin gloves. She had a clear imperious glance, which sharpened the curves of her maiden face.  
She first stared at Erik with a surprising aplomb, then sat a diplomatic smile on her face and turned to Charles.

"Pardon me for interrupting you, but Mr. Shaw is looking for you, Charles. And I wished that you would not let me with this man more than necessary."

Her tone was not amiable, and Erik was surprised to hear Charles answer her with patient affection. She must be very close to him, he guess. _Chances to seize_ ... Charles had said ... The bitterness of jealousy creeped into Erik's heart.

"Excuse me my dear. I had not seen that he had arrived." He held out his arm, which she took with grace, and turned calmly towards him, whom he had passionately embraced a few moments before. The contrast of attitudes was shocking.

"Raven, may I present you Erik Lehnsherr, a friend who made me the surprise to come this evening. Erik, this is Raven, my younger sister."  
Erik was so tense that he did not even make the effort to kiss her hand. But, in fact, the young lady had not sketched the slightest gesture to greet him. She seemed to gauge if he was a potential ennemy. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Raven turned away and dragged her brother by the arm.

They entered the ballroom again. This time, the looks around them became less discreet when they detailed Erik and then slid on Raven. They arrived near a small group of men, in their fifties, laughing falsely, their cup of champagne in their hands.

Raven abandoned Charles's arm a few steps from the circle of guests. She cut off their conversation without more ceremonies. "Monsieur Shaw, I will leave you in the care of my brother; he will know how to converse with you much better than I can."The man turned toward her with an emphatic movement. He had a bony face and a satisfied smile, his eyes were icely gray.

Erik froze. He knew this man.

"Mademoiselle, the freshness of your youth is worth all the erudite conversations. And you would oblige me if you agreed to call me Sebastian." He pretended to want to seize her hand to kiss it, but Raven slipped away.

  
"Well, gentlemen, I venture to abandon you; I must give a little of my attention to each of our guests." She turned on her heels, making the silk of her dress glide smoothly over the bright parquet, and went to another group of young men, a few yards away.

Shaw stare at her with an arrogant smile, then turned to Charles and said,  
"The impertinence of youth is always so vivifying. We feels alive again. Don't we?"

Erik did not even breathe, his eyes riveted on Shaw. That voice ... It was impossible ... how could such a coincidence, how could it be that this man ... Erik was watching the scene unfolding before him as if he were outside himself. His mind had become tense. White, empty. He saw flames, and heard cries of his past, and his mother...This man was Klaus Schmidt, the boss who had maltreated the poor Eddie until she was exhausted, the one who had refused Erik any help, this monster!

  
Erik remained as frightened as in a nightmare. It was not possible that this man was a close friend of Charles, it was inconceivable. His reason struggled to regain his footing in the midst of the marshes of his memories.

Before him, however, the exchange continued.  
"Yes," replied Charles, in a barely courteous tone.

  
Shaw, obviously very at ease to shine in public and undeterred by the fierce character of the Xavier siblings, continued his peroration.

  
"Oh, but speaking of youth, this proud young man makes me feel 20 years younger. Introduce us Mister Xavier!"

  
Charles repressed a groan of disgust and Erik almost reflexed to go between him and Schmidt. It was almost animal, that instinct to protect those he loved from this monster.

  
But Charles remained calm and amiable. He made the presentations in a monotone voice.

"Messieurs, I present to you Erik Lenhsherr, an artist friend who returns from Italy. Erik, here is Dr. Nathanael Essex, Baron Wolfgang Von Strucker, Colonel William Stryker and Mr. Sebastian Shaw, my stepfather's associates.

  
The four men gave him a slight nod, as pedantic and disdainful as they could without appearing discourteous. Erik did not even look at them, he could not leave Schmidt's eyes, he looked at him like to a venemous snake.

"I see," said Shaw condescendingly. "We do know each other? Lenhsherr ... Lenhsherr ... funny how that reminds me of something, but I can't place it..."

Erik felt his whole body tighten. _Say it what it reminds you, bastard ..._ he thought, aguish with rage.

  
Shaw narrowed his eyes, then chuckled.  
"Ah what tricky things are memories, really! We make the most absurd associations! I don't know why I'm rather reminded of this affair, that one we are bored with again and again since I don't know how long. That Jew officer, you know, the traitor, that ... Dreyfus!"

He turned to the three other men who let out rattle and indignant gasps. Assured of his conquered public, he continued:  
"But you know, gentlemen, that this story continues to occupy the press. We are told recently that his great defencer are none less than a pitiful immigrant, some bad writer of vulgar novels! Do you remember his lamentable pamphlet a year ago ? It was all over the press, a true scandal !"

He put down his empty glass and pursued his speach with a great gesture as some orator. "You know, I think French people are blind and stupid. With their permissiveness, they let grow all kind of scum!".

"Oh yes, have you read what this Zola dared to write? His _J'accuse_ was a bag of shitty things? If the french governement isn't capable of muzzling this kind of carrion, it doesn't surprise me that this nation lost so lamentably the last war!" Supplied the colonel.

  
"Oh, except for the respect I have for the Army, Colonel, when we see the way in which it is gangrened by those semitic influences ... It is not surprising that this country falls in all kind of revolutions as easily. The race is dying, "added the Baron.

  
"Yes," Shaw said, turning back to Erik. 'The Jewish gangrene, I had to play with that when I was in business in New York, and believe me, you do not eradicate it so easily."

Erik clenched his fists to bruise his palms, all his muscles burned and his mind vibrated so strongly that he felt himself losing all discernment.  
The flames, the cries, his mother.His rage was the strongest.

"A insect like you is not worth a finger of the hand of Mr. Zola," he said in firm voice, filled with harsh.

  
Charles hurriedly approached him and whispered to him: "Erik, no ..."

  
Shaw turned calmly. He had an air of amused superiority grafted to the face that Erik would have liked to wrench with his fist. The three other men took a step back, seeming to be slightly effraid.

"Well, then, we can hear at last that you know how to speak? It is very unfortunate that your first sentence is but a mediocre insult. Are you a _Dreyfusard_? Mister Xavier, you have very curious connections here."

Erik contained himself with great difficulty. He could not help raising his tone by replying.  
"You have the airs of a superior man, whereas you are only a putrid disease for this society, Mr. Shaw. But walking in the palaces doesn't stop you from having the mud of misery that sticks to you like a shadow. It still stinks a little under the chic costumes. No?"

  
Shaw chuckled, a little grey in spite of disdain. Erik stepped toward him with a threatening behavior. The other didn't back off, but he lost his smile.  
"But I suppose your past doesn't worried you too much. You already have other innocences to sully, I think. It seems that you have found here a white goose to shoe!"

Charles took his arm suddenly, he was pale as a linen. "Erik, it's not -"

  
But Erik was not in a state to be reasoned. He pulled out the thin bundle of Angel's letters that he had kept in his jacket pocket and threw it into Shaw's face. They fell to the ground and scattered. In the hall, the conversations had stopped and the guests dared not approach, looked over their shoulders and fans to try to guess the ins and outs of the current scandal.  
Everybody stared at the poor envelopes, the coarse and derisory little papers on the bright parquet, and yet those had an aura of cataclysm.  
"What is that ?" spat Shaw.

"It's from a poor girl you abandonned: Angel Salvatore. You had asked her to give you back your pathetic love's letters, so here they are! Thus, you will no longer have to pay for her service, I guess. This is the manners of people of your kind. To pass from a prostitute's bed to that of an innocent heiress. And yet you have the gall to give me lessons in morality !"

  
Shaw stood upright, his dry face expressing an icy hatred.  
"Swallow your words, young man, or you will answer me."

  
"Very well, let's not waste time, we can settle this in the yard, Bronx style." Erik replied, ferocious.

  
The crowd made little surprising cries and Raven, who was near, left her group of friends to join her brother.

  
Charles placed himself between the two men, his hands raised as a sign of appeasement.  
"Gentlemen, all this is to put on the account of alcohol and fatigue and-"

But Shaw cut him off. The evil smile had returned to him, and he turned his glance towards him. He clicked his tongue with disdain."Monsieur Xavier, this _artist_ friend of you, whom you brought back to us, should have stayed in the hovels of Montmartre where you found him. His place is not here, don't you think, just as yours is not in his garret if you want my opinion."

 _Montmartre?_ Erik's heart missed a beat and he was seized with a cold sweat. How did Schmidt know?!  
Charles had taken the blow too. He was even more pale, but he did not lose his composure and his face expressed very little of his emotion.  
"It seems to me, Mr. Shaw, that even though my friend has been very rude to you, your remarks go somewhat beyond the scope of propriety. I remain your host here and not a student to lecture."  
He smiled courageously at his sister, who, probably worried, had taken an alarmed look.

Noticing this, Shaw's morgue was further accentuated. He added, in a tone of sickening mildness."My dear Charles, I believe that all this has in fact taken unreasonable proportions. Mr. Lehnsherr and I will behave like gentlemen and leave it at that. It would be useless to spoil this delightful evening isn't it? Your charming sister would be perfectly sorry and I imagine that is not what you want."

  
Raven seemed surprised for a moment to be included in the dispute. Charles swallowed, his jaw clenched. Erik, who had been disconcerted by the exchange, far more violent than the calm tone of the two men suggested, regained his audacity.

  
"I do not have the cowardice of your kind, Shaw, I will not allow myself to be dismissed by you," he said.

Charles's younger sister, who stood beside him, looked at him with admiration.

"Do not play with my patience, Mr. Lehnsherr," Shaw snapped.

  
This time, before Erik could reply or move, Charles put a firm hand on his chest.  
"Erik, could we go out for a few moments?" He asked him.

His tone was firm, it was not really a question. Erik clenched his teeth. In front of him, Shaw turned away with disdain,pretending nothing had happened, and resumed his mundane conversation punctuated with honeyed remarks to Raven.

  
Indifference was the worse, it was bringing Erik 8 years earlier, when he was a teenager unarmed in front of the closed door of Schmidt. He felt torn between his hatred of Schmidt and his still struggling conscience. This accursed rage of vengeance would make him lose the only being he thought he could hold.  
Charles, taking advantage of Erik's moment of doubt, took his arm and dragged him towards the hall to the entrance of the mansion.

Arrived in the cold of the winter night, Erik resumed his mind and violently pushed Charles away who still held his wrist.  
He then turned to him, lowering his voice, but still keeping his vehemence, unable to resist his anger against the one for whom he had just abandoned the battlefield.

"How can you ask me to humiliate myself in front of this scum!"

  
"Erik please, this is not the place!"

Always this ridiculous argument, Erik can't stand it anymore.  
"This guy is garbage! How can he be tolerated under your roof ?!"

"But to begin with, you did not have to be here!"

"Then I'm the monster you drive from your house."

"It's not that... I should have ..." Charles sighed exasperatedly. "I'm sorry Erik it's my fault ... include you in my life when all this is so complicated ... it was a mistake"

  
A silence.

  
Erik was stunned. Deaf. He felt a violent pain in his chest. What was the hideous noise he heard distinctly in him? The deafening din which resonated in all his being at that moment, what was it? His ears were buzzing with the sordid echo of this phrase. _A mistake. It was only a mistake._

  
An ice wall instantly struggled around his heart. Deaf, blind, insensible.

  
He let his anger pour out since he had it in abundance.  
"A _mistake_ ! But of course, all this is a big mistake. To love you ! To love you was a mistake! You're right, I have nothing to do here among these people, in this perverse world where you live. I thought you were different, I thought you made me different. But, no, it's just a mistake, isn't it. It's all the same, people like you, you lies, you act, everything is fake! You fucked me over, with your big innocent eyes. How was it to play the frightened virgins in front of the poor bugger with dirty hands? You wanted to slum yourself, right? Good ! Bravo, it didn't cost you all that much. To me though-maybe you should pay me, as a good whore? At least the price for a good fucking? No?"

He had finally raised his voice, and the horrible words had resounded in the courtyard of the mansion. Inside, a few heads were turned with curiosity towards the windows and the servants present on the porch stared at the two men with a look more than intertwined.

Erik realized that he was indeed making a scene. It didn't really matter. Let them drag him to prison, for what his life was worth.

Charles looked at him horrified.

  
"Erik, please ..." His eyes were shining with tears but they had not flowed down his cheeks. Charles stubbornly refrained from showing his sadness, his anger, his frustration or any feeling. He, who had so often let Erik read his heart in the open book of his beautiful clear eyes, was as if everything was now closed, destroyed in his mind.

  
As if he did not even want to offer him his tears.

What they had shared did not deserve to be mourned, it seems.

And yet Erik believed in it. He had wished to believe in that love born in less than two weeks, to that desire which had enlisted him , domesticated and appeased him. He had offered his soul and now it lay there on the ground, bruised and dying. He wanted to fight again:  
"Charles, tell me I'm wrong, tell me that what I have just told you isn't true ..." he said out loud.

  
_Pick up my heart, it's at your feet, a word from you ... I beg you ..._ He prayed in his head.

As a response to his prayer, a tear finally escaped from Charles' eyes.

But it's then that a silhouette appeared on the step of the front door. It was Raven, lit by the hall behind her. Her shadow projected, gigantic, on the pavements of the courtyard. She seemed to be the image of destiny that came to ring the death in a dramatic play.

"Charles, but why are you still outside? It's going to be midnight, our guests are looking for you!" She called.

  
It was ridiculous. This futile reality that came to snatch them from their drama was ridiculously sordid.  
Charles closed his eyes for a second, inhaled and expired slowly, and when he reopened them, they had lost all life.

He spoke in an extinguished voice."I think we have nothing more to say to each other. I'm going to ask you to leave this house, Mr. Lehnsherr."

Erik clenched his fists. He swallowed. His throat was dry, burnt with anger, with regret.

  
"I see," he concluded coldly.

  
All this had been a lie. There was no reason to fight for an illusion. He had nothing left to save from this mess.  
He looked at Charles one last time. His lover ... his love ... and turned his heels, resigned.

He passed the large entrance porch and walked calmly, refusing to turn around.  
Passy's Street seemed to him atrociously long, every step scratched his soul, and the tatters fell on the muddy sidewalks.  
But when he reached the crossroads, he could no longer do so; he began to run, desperately.  
He ran until his legs are tense with cold, run until his irritated lungs bring back the taste of blood in his mouth. He ran to his miserable quarter, to his room made for a poor talentless artist like him, to that pitiable mattress where he had thought he could love an angel.

He had nothing left. He had never had anything.  
He was nothing.  
In the darkness of the room, the moon illuminated Charles' portrait, who smiled at him with its pencil shots' mouth.

  
Erik fell on his knees before the sketch.

  
_A mistake._

  
He tore it violently from the decrepit wall, the rage devouring his insides.  
At the moment of crumpling the portrait between his frozen fingers, he crossed the beautiful look to whom he would have given everything.

  
Along Erik's neck, the ghost of a caress was the ultimate blow to his agonizing soul. His sobs, which tore the silence of the garret, were stifled by the dark night.

In the distance, in the lights of the city, the joy of the first hours of the new century resounded. It was the first of January 1900.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big angsty chapter ! And I fear that the next ones will be worst... lots of tears to come, be prepared !! 
> 
>  
> 
> Notes and historical background :  
> \- the Passy cemetery is the posh cemetery in Paris, a romantic place near the Xavier mansion : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Passy_Cemetery  
> \- hijo de perra : son of a bitch (in spanish)  
> \- Da : yes (in russian)  
> \- Strikes and labor conditions in US : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Labor_history_of_the_United_States  
> \- "Biscuit" refers to pottery that has been fired but not yet glazed, see some examples here : https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Biscuit_porcelain  
> -Prix de Rome : after a test in the Beaux Arts academy, the young artists from bourgeoisie and noble families must go to Rome to complete their training. The most academic artists, those who were in fashion, all had a Prix de Rome.  
> -Adieu / Au Revoir : in french it's two kind of "goodbyes", the first one is a "it's our last encounter, good luck to you", the second is more a "until our next encounter", and there is a third : "A bientôt" = see you soon.  
> \- The "affaire Dreyfus" was a very dramatic case of antisemitism in the end of the 19th century in France, and some writers like Emile Zola (one of my favorite authors) made a lot to save the spirit of liberty and tolerance in those hard times :https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Dreyfus  
> \- Colonel Stryker speaks about the "last war" : it's the Franco-Prussian War in 1870-1871, a war between Germany and France where the latter lost the war after Paris eventually surrendered.  
> \- a Dreyfusard was someone who thought that Dreyfus was innocent. The opposite side was the anti-dreyfusard.


	10. Our Mistakes.

  
Charles woke painfully, a rip out from the magma of a febrile sleep. The light, that pierced the heavy dark velvet curtains, was too white and intense for his bleary eyes .  
It was near noon or there abouts.  
Which meant that Charles had managed to sleep only 3 hours in all.  
Last night had been atrocious.

He stared at the ceiling for a moment. Still a prisoner of his meager rest, his mind tried to recollect the previous day's events. _The ball, the evening, Erik._

Charles sat up slowly in bed. The mattress widened under his weight, the sheets were cold. On the back of his chair near the desk, he noticed his dress shirt strewn without care.  
He remembered having undressed with a sort of uncontrollable anger, bringing back on those clothes all the disgust that he had for his constrained life. This masquerade, these unclean compromises with his conscience, the tortures inflicted at his heart.

And all this for what? To keep up appearances in a rotten world that he tolerated no longer ?! Didn’t it matter anymore ?  
  
He shuddered, won over by the hints of this irrational anger, his nerves extremely irritated.  
_Erik._  
Charles had not been able to stop him ...  
His thoughts were interrupted by an aborted sob which he held back with difficulty.  
_No. He was not going to start crying again!_

He had spent his night doing just that.  
As soon as he had been able to shut himself up in his room, as soon as there was no longer the pressure of these dozens of scrutinizing and evil looks upon him, the tears were freed.

  
Uncontrollable, _for hours_. Nothing existed anymore except his grief, and he could not even think of what had happened that evening. Erik was gone and it was as if some part of his soul had been snatched from him. There was nothing rational about it, nothing scientific.  
The realization had taken him suddenly once his mask retired. Once this cursed snobish facade was removed, Charles collapsed. It was a pure, unfiltered pain, and he could only weep here, sitting half-naked on the parquet floor of his room. When the spasms had diminished a little, he had dragged himself to his bed. And there, the pain had resumed, stronger, compressing the heart and the mind as if it were stifled under an enormous bag of grains.

Charles raised a hand on his face. His eyes were swollen, his eyelids stung and his skull felt as filled with water and dried out at the same time.

He saw again, in a nightmarish kaleidoscope: Erik and his gaze filled with anger, and disappointment.He heard his words. They had been horrible and yet it did not matter.

It didn't, because, before the insults, Erik had confessed to him his love.

  
It was doubtless pitifully melodramatic to cling to this in the midst of this debacle of feelings, but it was the only light he had managed to distinguish.  
Through all the intensity of his fiercely free artist's soul, Erik had loved him.

And Charles had turn away from him, because all of this was absurd. Erik should not be at this extravagant ball, he, so true and honest in front of all these corrupt monsters, because let him face this world was suicidal. Charles was too fond of him for this. Sending him away from this infection had appeared to protect him.

And then there was his sister Raven, he had to think of her before feeding his own selfish happiness.

She had been perfect. From this he could rejoice. Raven had charmed her audience, adapting herself to each of her guests as the most graceful chameleon. He hoped so strongly that she could find a good match in this assembly where very good young people had been reunited. If she could have gained something, then there would be a little good born in the midst of this desolate mess. He wished she had not been affected by the scandal caused by Sebastian Shaw.  
This man ... Charles had, very clearly, underestimated him. His power of nuisance was far superior to Kurt Marko's. More vicious, less predictable.  
_The hovels of Montmartre where you found him,_ the man had said. The sentence came back suddenly. How could this man know that Erik lived there? Had he said that at random? To vex him?  
Now that Charles was awake and less groggy by the shock of the night's emotions, this little remark had much more impact in his mind. He was going to have to solve this mystery or at least be wary in the days to come.

  
Charles sighed and finally got up. His head spun and he had a slight fever. His body painfully reminded him of what this night had cost him.

He washed himself succinctly, put on simple clothes, a thick cotton shirt and a fine woolen vest and left his room. The priority was for him to check the evening with Miss Moira and, if possible, Raven. Then, if he could find the strength, he would go and see Erik, and try to explain to him everything. Because he didn't want to believe that he had lost him forever. He was a naive fool and he was in love. The mix could nourish all hopes ... even the most unrealizable.

  
As he left his room, he went directly to his sister's and knocked at the door. No one answered. He did not insist. She must have already been downstairs with Moira, besides, he could hear the sounds of a conversation on the ground floor.

  
He went downstairs, the hall was a vast work-yard, swarming with servants who tried to retransform the ballrooms from the night before. They were busy there unrolling the carpets, moving the furniture, straightening the pictures and replacing the trinkets.  
In an hour at most, everything would have disappeared: all his drama of the past night, all the words said, all the kisses stolen, all the raw emotions effaced by the normality of this superficial life. His world was a stage, the setting for which was now less of a tragedienne death and a more of a cheap cabaret.

  
Charles stopped for a moment to observe the rooms in full transformation.  
His daily life had become unbearable. He felt like he was drowning.  
Looking again with a detached eye, he saw the objects resumed their places, he walked slowly to the drawing-room.  
But when he reached it, it was not, alas, the two young women who welcomed him with their sweet smile. His blood froze in his veins.  
His stepfather and Sebastian Shaw stood in the middle of the room.

Marko had a very large, brutal smile. In either case it was a frightening sight. But the look Shaw gave him was far worse. His whole face was a mask of carnivorous arrogance.

"Charles, what a pleasure to see you at last!" He shouted. He could also have declared that he would eviscerate and devour him and his ton would have remained unchanged.

Charles almost hesitated to approach. Deep inside him, an survival instinct told him to flee, it begged him to not face these two men when he was so weak that he was hardly able to stand.  
_The cowardice of your kind_. That's what Erik said. Charles wanted to prove to him that he was not like that, even if the artist was not there to see it.  
So he stepped forward, the pace as stiff as a condemned man's.

"Ah what a judicious union, I am overjoyed with how things have turned out Sebastian. Or should I say, my dear son-in-law. Oh calling you that will take getting use too!" Kurt laughed out loud.

  
Shaw hardly smiled, his eyes fixed on Charles, who felt his heart miss a beat.

  
"What union? I haven't given my permission for my sister to be engaged, "he began firmly.

  
Shaw raised his eyebrows slightly and Kurt suddenly stopped laughing looking fearsome.  
"What do you mean ?! This affair was closed last night. Mr. Shaw told me that you had explicitly assured him that you had _no interest to oppose to your sister's engagement_ ". He turned bovinely to Shaw. "Your words exactly Sebastian?"

Shaw had not left Charles's eyes."It seems to me that it was rather that it _was not in HIS interest to oppose to this union between Miss Xavier and Me_ , "he subtly corrected by doubling his words with a dangerous smile.

  
Obviously, a threat, as expected, blackmail to force his hand.This man war far more vicious than Charles had guess. But he did not have to bow in front of ignominy.

"I didn't say anything like that. And you don't begin very well your courting , Mr. Shaw, if you want to win my sister's heart with lies."

  
Shaw chuckled. "Your _sister's heart_ ? Who speaks about heart and love in this room? We are between adults here, it's a transaction. We talk about business, we're not in one of your futile romance novels." His tone was disgusted.

  
"Indeed!" Exclaimed heavily Marko. "Just get your sister down, let's settle this now." He accompanied his words with a great peremptory gesture.

Charles stiffened and shrugged."Over my cold, dead body ! I have nothing to do with your paternalistic tone and your whore dealers' orders. I have the legal responsibility of Raven and she does not have to be brought to you like a Suzanna before court!"

  
Kurt immediately resumed his brute attitude and came in front of him, scolding him in the face. Charles did not recoil. His stepfather was all rage, he saw a vein beat at his temple, and his eyes were red with fury. He had probably believed in the space of a few minutes that all his plan was finally settled. Charles' sudden refusal was sovereignly intolerable to him.

  
"You 're not going to slam your science in my face, wretched impertinent snob!"

"It's not science, it's the Holy Bible. The Old Testament to be precise."

  
"Don't play that game with me, Charles." His stepfather was foaming with rage. He could only contain himself because his associate, Shaw, was the witness of this scene. He didn't perceive, moreover, that Shaw, sadistic, would no doubt have appreciated that their scandal rises in violence.

  
"I don't play, it's my sister's future we're talking about, I will not give her up to this man."

Behind Marko, Shaw had crossed his arms with astonishing nonchalance, seeming to wait until his wishes were self-exhausting."Come on, my dear fellow," he said "you are not going to make you dictate your conduct, under your roof, by this child."

Charles had a well-repelled reply, but he didn't have time to answer, his stepfather cut him off, raising his arms in a movement of ultimate exasperation.  
"You are right, Sebastian ! This comedy has lasted enough!"  
Kurt suddenly left the hall, jostling Charles on the way, who immediately turned to hurry after him.

  
"Stop! Kurt you don't have the right to-" But a hand gripped his shoulder, stopping him suddenly.

  
"If I may my boy, don't be so naive to think that your lover's presence at yesterday's ball was due to hazard," Shaw whispered in a low, threatening voice. He had gripped him with a hooked, painful grip, grinding his shoulder between his bony fingers.

  
Charles immediately drew back from him, revulsed.

_His lover !_

"What ?!"

  
Shaw upstart raised his chin and smiled with delight.  
"Come on, Charles, don't play the offended maiden, we all have our dirty little secrets. And yours was not so well concealed. It was a bit too easy to find."  
Charles' heart raged violently. His stepfather had gone fast up the stairs leading to his sister's room. His reason struggled to regain a little power over the panic which overflowed him on all sides.

  
"What makes you insinuate such things?" He hissed.

Shaw rubbed his chin, not really listening and pretending to talk to himself. "Hum ... in your case I would bet on a lack of experience, classic mistake of the beginner. This handsome fellow must have been your first, didn't he?"  
Charles blushed with both anger and embarrassment. It was horrible to hear this beautiful truth come out from a so nauseous mouth .

"How dare you! How does this have to do with-"

  
Shaw cut him off with a squalid laugh.

On the upper floor resounded the violent blows that Kurt gave to Raven's room's door. After the fourth, a deafening noise indicated that the lock had given way. His stepfather must have broken it. Charles wanted to rush towards his sister and was prevented by Shaw who was still laughing at him and his vain efforts not to lose his countenance.

  
" _To do with_?  Oh, you're so adorably naive! But, my dear, your little perversion can lead you straight into jail if this Erik Lenhsherr deigns to testify against you. Note in this regard that everything can be bought and that a man of his kind must have some debts to mop up. But I am not a monster, to see you crouching in a damp jail is of no interest to me, on the other hand, make you declare immoral and therefore incapable of remaining the guardian of a girl of 17 years old... it's a little bit more...appealing to me."

Charles opened his eyes horrified, a cold sweat instantly covered his neck and he began to shivered.

  
"No, you would not dare to do that ..." In his mind everything was jostling. Raven his little sister, by his fault, at the mercy of these two brutes and Erik, noble and free Erik, who was thrown to him like a flawed weapon in the face.

  
"Me, _do not dare_? Ah," smiled Shaw, almost compassionate, "it's true that you're very young. You know nothing about what we can do for ambitions."

The din of Marko's heavy steps down the stairs pushed Charles to beg his torturer. He refused to believe in such blackness in an human soul."Please, don't do that, please-".

He had no time to go on, his stepfather, his face crimson, stood before him and placed a piece of paper under his eyes with such violence that Charles stepped back.

"Read !" he ordered.

Charles looked at the missive then at Kurt with round eyes."But where is my sister?", he asked, totally lost.

  
"READ !!!" Shouted Kurt.

  
The fine lines of ink and the beautiful cursives, he recognized Raven's writing. Charles began in a clear voice that quickly became barely audible.

_Kurt,_  
_I understood recently that you had the greatest difficulty in tolerating me under your roof. In order to relieve you of this burden, I take my liberty and, from that day, emancipate myself from your yoke by leaving this home and this life for which I had very little attachments and affections._  
_I doubt whether you have any anxiety about my fate, but I assure you nevertheless that I am accompanied in this new stage of my existence by persons of confidence with unquestionable uprightness. I will find love and security with them. Two requirements of human nature that as a stepfather you obstinately failed to give me._  
_Farewell,_  
_Raven Xavier_

Charles silently re-read the short letter. The words blurred before his eyes. The meaning of the sentences escaped him, his mind was emptied. His sister had left. He looked at the piece of paper in his hands and could not move. She had abandoned him ...

Around him the silence did not last. Shaw, suddenly dropping his mask of haughty satisfaction, exclaimed.

"What !! What can she possibly mean by this?"  
He snatched the letter from Charles' hands, read it quickly, and threw it to the ground. He turned to Marko, looking murderous.

"They tricked you! These two kids have organized this masquerade under your nose, and you, you have allowed me to shoe in this puerile game !!" He pushed his index finger into Marko's torso in punctuation of each of these sentences. In front of him, Kurt stupidly mortified, dared not even respond to such implacable fury.

  
"But how could you be so stupid? This dirty little pervert and his  shameless sister have made us fools for days and you are not even aware! And I who brought you into the best salons of Paris! I am going to humble you Marko, dragging you in the mud until your name is no more than the synonym for the most pitiable discomfiture on the public scene. You will regret having associated me with this contemptible union project!"

  
At these words, Shaw, straightened up, brought back the locks of his hair which had fallen haggard on his sweaty forehead and adjusted his jacket. A semblance of dignity, very badly imitated.

"We shall not meet again, but you will hear for a long time about me," he concluded princely.  
He went out without looking at Charles, whom he did not even think worthy of any interest. The latter had remained unresponsive. Deaf to everything. _Raven was gone. Like Erik ..._  
His stepfather had turned to him. The humiliation and insults he had just encountered clenched his face in a mask of hardly contained hatred. He looked at his stepson for long seconds, seeming to evaluate in his brute mind what the life of this brood who was not his was worth. The young man looked up slowly.

In front of those sad and too big blue eyes, Kurt had a spasm of disgust. He grabbed Charles by the arm and began to drag him from the drawing-room into the hall. His thick fingers bruised his flesh but the young man did not even have a movement to struggle, he allowed himself to be mauled like a puppet made with rags. His stepfather opened the large door and pulled him behind the cobblestones of the courtyard. There he threw him violently on the ground. Charles hardly felt the gravel and the frost hurt his palms when he caught up on his hands.

  
"You will not put a foot here again , you hear me miserable vermin! Go join your sister in the gutter, in a whore house, in the pits of hell for all that I care! If police tell me one day that your corpses have been found, I will let them rot in the morgue for the pleasure of the populace!"

  
Despite his rage that made him sweat and eruct heavily, Marko was quickly won by the cold. So he stopped his vociferations and went back to the dwelling so the door slammed like a hurricane.  
Charles, still on the ground, looked at his clenched fists. His phalanges were as white and gray as the stones paving the court. He stood up. His knee, which he had to hit hard by falling, hurt. It didn't matter. He went out into the street. His clear gaze looked at the pavements, the houses, the passers-by.  
Everything seemed blurry.  
He began to walk.

* * *

 

When he finally arrived in the quarter of Montmartre, Charles recovered his mind a little.

He had walked from Passy without thinking of a direction and he had finally landed there. In Erik's quarter. Like it was a reflex, an instinct.

A bell rang 1 PM in the distance or was it 2PM ? The time had seemed to stretch and dissolve in the mists of his mind.  
He had nothing left, all had abandoned him in too short a time to let him get back on foot.  
He had no idea where his sister might be? He hoped she would be safe with Moira, better protected than he, who rubbed his arms with his frozen hands. The thin barrier of his interior clothes does little to keep him from the cold.  
Would Erik forgive his cowardice now that he was no longer a member of that class of the rich that the artist execrate? Could he explain to him that he had never been one of this kind , that he was not of any party, of any battle, that he had just wanted to believe in society and its progress. And then he wanted to believe also in this feeling ... new, chaotic, superb. This love, scarcely born, that had borne him, raised him, liberated him ...

He crossed the square occupied by several seasonal merchants and craftsmen, as well as a crowd of onlookers, customers and people speaking loudly and jostling. He reached the little rickety house and, as he climbed the wooden staircase, he thought back to his arrival here on that December afternoon. It was a few days ago.  
In his memory, his present replied in echo. It was the same places, the same steps. The same impression but quite different, the same time, the same light but almost opposite emotions.  
Charles knocked at the door of the attic, his heart pounding.

* * *

 

Erik stood in the middle of the attic.  
It was empty. Only the drab furniture remained behind: the table and its chair, the wooden trunk, the mattress, stripped of its sheets. All the objects, all that had the least value had been auctioned. There remained only the skeleton of his life in Montmartre, in the midst of this room which would forever inhabit its most beautiful memories of Paris.

The sun was high, maybe it was noon or 1 pm.  
The white winter light came to shine on the old wretched bed. It could not restore to this dingy layer a little of the magic of the past days. From these nights to draw, lifted by an impulse of inspiration like no other before them, there remained only a diffuse bitterness. Charles' naked body had, however, stretched out there, an unreal beautiful image, and Erik had felt for a few hours as the most proud of the kings returning to the most sumptuous chamber. This euphoria of art and love had been a delightful intoxication.

  
This story was now nothing but a faded dream. _A mistake_...

  
How long had it been since he woke up this morning? 5 hours maybe 6? During this time he had put the nails in the coffin of his former life.  
  At this point moving rapidly was just going through the motions. From Poland to America, from New York to Florence, from Italy to France, his life had hitherto been but a succession of exiles and ephemeral refuges before any further break-ups.

  
He had resold his meager goods, recovered here and there a little of the pennies he was owed for odd-jobs. The old engraver of the Passage des Panoramas had been kind enough to buy some of his works for his shop. He was not rich, of course, but the pieces that weighed his waistcoat pocket would allow him to leave far, to leave France perhaps. For where he didn’t know? He just wanted to leave this city, get away as far as possible, put miles between him and ... his heart, his soul, Charles ... Damn it! He had to dig out of that hole love had put him in or he was going to go mad!

At his feet his bag contained a change of clothes, his drawing equipment, bread and some cheese, a few things also, memories. He lifted it with one hand and fixed the strap on his shoulder.

  
All he had to do was leave the room. He sighed, casting a last glance at the decrepit walls. For a moment he thought he saw the pages of sketches he had made of Charles in all those days and nights of inspiration.

  
But the drawings were no longer there.

  
He had burned them.

  
Erik, finally, exited  and pull the lock.

  
As he descended the wooden staircase he passed through the landing where Angel lived and slipped the key of the attic under the door of the dancer. She would understand that he had gone without paying his rent, and if she had a little friendship for him, she would not at once notify the owner of his flight.

  
Outside, the small square, lined with chestnut trees, overflowing as usual with noises and life. He dodged the stalls of the sellers of vegetables and soups and headed for the nearest train station.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon the end !! It's a lot of work to translate all this words in an other langage (thanks AMY for your help !!). I hope this story pleases you, as I have almost no comment, I will believe that yes! :) !
> 
> Little notes about researches and historical stuffs:   
> -Suzanna and the two elder men is mentioned in the Book of Daniel. A fair young lady who was falsely accused by two lecherous voyeurs : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Susanna_(Book_of_Daniel)
> 
> -The Paris morgue was located on the Quai de l'Archevêché on the Île de la Cité, not far from the Cathedral of Notre-Dame-de-Paris. It was a form of macabre theatre, which regularly attracted spectators because the bodies which were fished out of the Seine were put on display there, behind a large glass window, along with the clothes that they had been wearing. On June 28, 1867 a body was found without a head, arms and legs, and put on display. The head, arms and legs were found a few days later, and the body was identified, and the murderer tracked down and arrested. The system was macabre but effective; seventy-five percent of the bodies found in the Seine were identified in this way.


	11. Departures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note at the beginning of this chapter to recommend you to pay attention to the tags that have been added. The following is full of heavy angst, violence, and hard times especially for Charles.

 

  
The St-Lazare station. The Western train station.

  
It was a gaping maw that engulfed thousands of travelers from everywhere, every day, every hour, to the sound of the trains' chimneys and the whistles of the station chiefs.  
Erik had just arrived in the forecourt, and he was already exhausted.

  
To tear himself from his attic was an immense, profound effort.  
Yet, this garret without any comfort was only a roof under which he had been sleeping for only a few months. But, he knew deep within that it was something else.

  
Tingling stroked his palms, his arms, his chest, his lips. It was the remembrance of a body he had embrace, the ghost of the warmth of skin, something like a faint flame that wanted to escape from the gangue of ice where he had decided to imprison his heart. _Charles_ ...

  
This tearing. Again. He was about to leave Paris, and to go where? To what new land? Erik knew he was an exile, ever since so very long ago, never had time to put down roots anywhere. The feelings he had had for Charles had made him hope so much for a rest in this perpetual flight.

He let out a huff.  
No more self-pity! He was going to leave and forget.

  
Erik looked up at the front of the station. The enormous clock, which adorned it, indicated almost 13:30. On the Place du Havre, the population of Paris came and went. Travelers hurled hackney-coaches and cars. They came from everywhere and zigzagged in scabrous cavalcades, narrowly avoiding being crushed. Only the wealthy guests of the Hotel Terminus, whose gleaming footbridge directly overlooked the platforms of the station, didn't have to fear the inconveniences of the teeming populace.

Obviously, Erik didn't have that luxury.

He slipped somewhere among the crowds who stay on the steps of the platform's entrance at the beginning of this cold afternoon . The noise of the trains, the clouds of white steam rising from the chimneys of the enormous locomotives, the screeching of the rails, and the heavy mechanics of the wheels which threw themselves; Erik had never ceased to be fascinated by this symphony of the living metal.

Around him, families ran in small troops, bags in hand, trunks and heavy luggage carried by servants. The conductors, dressed in clean, stiff uniforms, watched over all this ballet of traveling life, the effervescence of departure, the distress of farewells.

Erik was in the middle of it all.  
Alone.

The long whistle of the black locomotive, on the platform close to him, resonated under the vaults of the steel cathedral.  
The massive machine shook like a monstrous beast, and Erik shivered. _Leaving ... Forgetting ..._

 _Erik!_  
He turned suddenly. He thought he heard his name, a voice that would have called him, and that voice was ...His heart contracted. It was Charles. But the young man was not here. Why could he not tear him from the soul? Why !?

He saw him everywhere and found him nowhere. Never was a look as blue, never a smile was as alive, never a voice warmed his heart as Charles'.  
Staying in this city would make him crazy, Erik had to leave, to forget, quickly!

"My ladies, I will carry our luggage in the carriage, if you will wait here."

A group of three young people had just passed him. Two very pretty ladies, one brown and the other blonde, and a boy with very large eyes concealed behind myopic glasses. It was the latter who had just left by pushing a cart containing four large trunks. The two young women waited patiently near Erik. The brunette, wrapped up in a very strict pearl-gray coat, seemed particularly anxious.

"I will not be able to stop myself from being worried Mademoiselle, we should have told him where we were going, to reassure him, he will be mad with anxiety."

"I will write to him, Moira, I swear to you that I will do so as soon as we reach Le Havre's port, when we will be sure to have a boat for New York, but not before. I do not want Marko to find an opportunity to catch up with us because of a weak remorse. You know that, we talked about it. That would be too stupid really to lose our lead."

  
Erik looked at the girl. She was dressed elegantly but with great sobriety, draped in a night blue traveling coat, her pretty blonde doll head  covered with a purple hat.  
He recognized her.

  
"Raven!" He let escape aloud.

  
She turned, at first dismayed, then, seeing him, she frowned. She had also recognized him.  
They stared defensively, well aware that the person they had in common, the only link that brought them together in this world, was not there with them.

She took a step towards him, no smile, a hard look. This girl was very pretty, really. Erik saw in her a lioness hidden under the skin of a beautiful Persian cat. She smiled at him with a certain frankness. In his eyes there was still some of the innocence of her 17 years, but also a sadder note, a kind of dark resignation that made her seem older than her years. In this way she looked like her brother.

"You are Charles' _friend_. Whoever wanted to fight with this execrable Sebastian Shaw. The one he drove out of the ball." There was no accusation in her voice. It was a simple statement of the facts. Erik nodded.

Measuring her coat and her bag, she added:  
"So you're running away too."

He felt guilty but reacted with humor.  
"What do you mean, Mademoiselle Xavier? What would you have to run away from? The luxury and comfort of your rich mansion?"

  
She shrugged and smiled at him with pity in her eyes.  
"Very well, I don't know how Charles depicted me to you, but I'm not a little doll waiting quietly to be married, if that's what you think."

Erik thought nothing of it , he had not gone so far in his judgment. There had been only the blinding anger the day before, when they met. But that she could not know.

  
"Charles had not told me that," he commented soberly.

The girl tensed. "Charles never says anything about what he really thinks," she retorted bitterly.

The remark displeased him. He would not have been able to say why, but his heart wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that Charles was truly totally on the contrary, provided that one sought his soul behind the masks of restraint and education.  
He smiled sadly. _Oh God, I am far from being cured of him if I still believe so much in my own illusions_.

"For a beloved sister, you do not seem to know much about him," he said, in a bravado.

Deep inside him came the diffuse jealousy which he had felt at the ball. As if there was competition of affection between them. He always resented Raven to be the one who interrupted him and Charles at the worst moments of the evening. This rancor allowed him to stifle the doubts he had had since. To see the girl now was really destabilizing, a little as if he were forced to face his own inconsistencies. He tightened his hand on the thong of his bag. Beside them, the brunette, named Moira as he heard, asked him suddenly.

  
"What were you for him?" Her tone was extremely dry, and he immediately disliked her.

"I was his lover." The sentence slammed in the middle of the crowd at the station platform.

  
He wanted to shock her. Give a final claw blow to unleash the anger that was rising in him and annihilate this love story once and for all by throwing it to the two women. Raven opened her eyes wide, but her traveling companion scarcely blinked and sent back as dryly :

  
"Since when ?"

  
"10 days." He answered. How pitiful was this answer! 10 days, how could his life became such a mess just over a week! And yet ...

This time she stared at him, visibly shocked, and raised her hands to her chest. "Then it was you!"

At his side Charles's sister seemed confused and uncomfortable. Erik did not know how to react.

  
"It was me what?" He retorted, confused.

  
"This sheds new light, this-..." She turned, distress, towards Raven. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I did not say anything to you because I thought that- ... Yesterday morning, when we were preparing the ball, there was a light in your brother's eyes. It was so good to see him as happy. I was curious and- ..." She smiled a second, lost in her memory. "He told me not to worry about him any more, that he had met someone exceptional. In his eyes ...oh you would have seen, Mademoiselle... He was madly in love." She looked at Erik again, fiercely "And it was for you! And I believed that..." Erik saw the governess'face decompose in front of him. "And you abandon him," she finished in a breath.

But Erik's mind was empty. What had she said? The words jostled in his head without making sense.

  
" Abandon him ? But how do I ... "he stammered.

  
She did not let him finish, panic reached her brown eyes and she grasped his wrist with a clenched hand.

"He has no one left! And I, who believed that ... my God, what have I done? I left him alone with this monster." she added in despair.

Erik felt his heart racing violently. A frightful anxiety chilled his blood, the fatal impression he had had when he left the garret invaded him again. Charles's words sounded echoing in his ears. _After this evening I shall be free_ ... Anger, his anger had blinded everything. It was years of grudges and hatred that he had resurrected on seeing Schmidt, and the presence of his lover had only amplified his frustration. He wanted to destroy everything, the monster, this rotten world, and, unable to do it, it was his love that he had sacrificed.  
To realize this suddenly took Erik's breath away.

  
"Did he know you were about to go?" He asked impulsively, grabbing Moira on the shoulder. She was white as a linen.

Raven stayed here, horrified. What did she understand about what was going on here? Was she also measuring the impact of her own betrayal to her brother?

"Charles didn't seem to understand, he didn't want to ... Marko, their stepfather, wanted to force Mademoiselle Raven to marry this Sebastian Shaw, so she and I decided to flee. It was the best decision. It was necessary to make fast get away and Charles seemed so ... I thought ... that he had finally found ..." Moira continued:

"Found what ?!" Yelled Erik, he shook her. Too brutal, no doubt, but the anger was rising in him. A blind rage against everyone, against Schmidt, against Marko, against Charles inexplicably but especially against himself ... He would have strangled this woman. Why did he have to meet her?

  
He didn't want to hear the answer. He knew it already and he didn't want to hear it. Deep inside, his soul struggled abruptly under the weight of the ice cap which held it prisoner. The governess tore herself from his grasp and replied, shouting:

  
"Love!" She fell on her knees and began to sob. "I thought ... that he had found ... love ..."

  
Raven came to take her in her arms, she trembled, she looked at Erik with flaming eyes wet with tears.

  
The scene was pathetic. Erik was there, his arms dangling, his eyes mad, before two women in tears kneeling on a station platform. The other travelers were beginning to regroup, an agent may intervene soon.

Erik wanted to scream. He wanted to tear his heart from his chest. It was so painful now, much worse than the echo of the previous night passed in regrets and sobs. Charles ... What had he done?

  
Not far away on the platform, he saw the young man, who, a few minutes earlier, accompanied Raven and Moira, running towards them with anxiety. Before he could reach them, Erik managed to ask in a strangled voice.

  
"He loved me?"

Moira instantly calmed down and looked at him harshly, as if to evaluate him. What could she see? What did she expect of him? And what did he expect from this answer?

"Yes, of course he loves you. Could you really miss it?"

* * *

 

"It isn't a dorm here, _lindo dulce_!"

Charles awoke with a start. Rolling in a ball against the door of Erik's attic, he had finally fallen asleep. He was cold. He focused his gaze on the young woman who was leaning over him. She was that beautiful dancer of the cabaret: Angel. She had her fists on her hips and a little irritated air. He stood awkwardly, his legs flapped as if they were made of cloth.

"Pardon, I ... I was waiting for Erik, do you know when he'll be back?"  
Angel raised an eyebrow, chewed her lower lip and after two seconds of reflection, showed him what was in her hand. A key.  
"You see that, _gatito_? That means he will not come back, your Erik."

Charles looked at the key with daze, sleep had not really left him and his whole body was filled with stiffness. He was cold, really. His skin, his heart, his soul, everything was frozen and painful. His hope, his warmth, is with Erik's help that he would find them. It was a simple fact. What Angel said was meaningless for him.

She stared at him impatiently. From the floor below a male voice swayed cruedly.  
"Hey sweet heart! Be quick and move your ass up there, I haven't the whole day off!"

Angel returned a curse that echoed throughout the house and eventually pushed Charles out of the doorway to gain access to the lock. He watched her unlock it, always without understanding. The shock was all the greater when he discovered, once the door was opened, the interior of the attic.

Everything was empty.

Charles took a step inside, then a second. They were the same poor furniture, but he didn't recognize anything. There was no longer that peculiar sweetness, this diffuse desire, the air was no longer the same, nor the light. Erik was gone. _Erik was gone._

Behind him, Angel began to wiggle and gossip about explanations that Charles didn't hear. His eyes were fixed on the dingy mattress at the corner of the room. _How this layer seemed miserable now ..._

"Listen, I do not want any problems, you know, if he left so fast your artist, it's that he had some dirty secret or scum on his ass, I don't care, if you want to keep this rat's hole it's up to you, the owner is not going to have issue with this, he don't mind if you have enough to pay anyway, you could be a murderer of little children he doesn't-"  
She was interrupted by a heavy step and a sticky voice. A man had just penetrated into the attic.  
"Okay pretty, I will not stay all the holy day to play alone with my pen you know. So you brought back your- "The voice interrupted. The heavy step approached Charles."He but I recognize you! Hey !"

It was the callous hand on his neck that drew Charles out of his prostration."You look at me when I talk to you, fairy!"

Charles closed his eyes, and inhaled. He recognized the voice and the grip. This plunged him into his memories. _The cabaret of Hell, the drunken poet, a rainy evening, black powder on his eyelids, other warm hands on his skin, Erik._

  
He did not turn to the man who was nothing but a background noise for him.

  
The room was empty. The sketches had disappeared. Erik was gone ...

  
The voice became closer, more sluggish. The thumb of this calloused hand leaned against the base of Charles' skull.  
"You don't have your watchdog today pretty boy?  He lets you walk alone in the dirty neighborhoods? It's not safe you know..."

Behind them, Angel reacts with humor. She rasped and tried to attract her client by enraptured words.

The man laughed heavily."Oh no, shut up! Look, he ignores me, this fairy. He 's not afraid, he thinks he can play pedants with Victor ... But I don't like to be ignored, you know."

Charles was still looking at the mattress, seeing only the hours spent there in Erik's arms. Hundred faded images parade before him: sensations, words, caresses, fast enough to make him dizzy.

The hand of the crude man passed from his neck to his waist. Charles shivered. He was cold. He moved away.  
"Don't touch me," he said in a quiet voice.

"What?" Hiccoughed the drunken guy.

Angel charged with more insistence. She pulled on her client's shirt, wanting to leave the room where they had no right to be. She raised her voice and began to throw a bang of insults.  
The man then reacted with sudden brutality.

  
"Oh, Shut your filthy mouth whore! I'm not talking to you!"  
He grabbed Angel's blouse and dragged her outside. She struggled like a tigress, shouting loudly.

  
Charles reacted with a few seconds delay, as his mind came back into the present. He rushed to the man and forcefully freed Angel from his grasp.

  
Although surprised, the brute turned around and gave him a violent punch in the stomach that projected him a meter back. By the time he resumed his breathing, the drunk had pushed Angel out of the attic, relocked the door and given a key turn in the lock.

  
After that, he turned slowly. He smiled cruelly.

  
Charles looked at him, panting. The gulf that had opened before him, the imminence of what was to happen to him, left him paralyzed like a prey before the hunter's weapon.

On the other side of the door, Angel drummed the wood screaming.

"There, we are more at ease, you see, Nancy boy." The man drew closer, Charles backed up and stumbled against the table. He clenched his jaw and tried to contain his fear. Appearing in the light of day, his aggressor seemed to him much more robust than in his obscured memory of the cabaret hall, less drunk too. Although he knew how to fight, Charles guessed he had no chance against a similar gauge, not in the state of exhaustion in which he was.

Angel's cries had ceased, Charles prayed inwardly that she might have gone to seek help.  
The man took another step, he was now in front of him.

Charles must save some time, some seconds, precious, vital ...  
"Sir you have no reason to-!" The brute seized him by the throat. Charles tried to push him back, leaning on the table, but it cracked and slipped under him.

The fist pressed harder."I prefer when they keep quiet," the man grunted.

  
Charles was beginning to see white flashes in the periphery of his field of vision, the lack of oxygen would make him lose consciousness. His hands clenched on the arm that strangled him, he tried to free himself from the grip of his attacker by kicking. One of those touched and the man let go of him. Charles struggled to the door, but he was seized at the waist and the man threw him to the ground as if he were not weighing anything.

"You're right to struggle, Nancy!" Mocked the brute crossing the room in three steps. "We don't want it too romantic? 'cause we're real men, are we?"

  
Charles didn't have time to stand up, nor to retort. His opponent grabbed his hair and dragged him onto the mattress, on which he finally fell flat on his stomach.

"I'm not a beast, you see, I'm going to fuck you on a bed."  
The man held his head firmly against the mattress, his fist resting on his skull, pushing his nose into the rough and cold cloth, while with the other hand he stuffed his own fly to release his cock.  
Once this was done, the man uttered a raucous grunt. His muscles seemed to relax a little and Charles took advantage of it to struggle more strongly. He tried to turn around, but the man, pants on his knees, lay down on him. He felt the rough erection of his aggressor come to rub against the bottom of his back. This contact, aggressively hard and burning, snatched him a cry.

"No !"

  
"Oh, you're going to love it, you'll see !" whispered the brute in the hollow of his ear.

His breath, his voice, his smell, Charles felt like drowning.  
It was impossible, it could not be happening. A large hand tugged at his trousers, which were still suspended from his shoulder straps. No no no NO !  
He was going to be raped there, on this bed, on this mattress, on the same bed where Erik and himself were making love... No ...

 

 

* * *

 

"Get off my steps or I'll call the police !"

  
"I want to see Charles!"

  
"Go away, he's gone! He's gone to join your shitty kind! Let's find him there ! I don't want to see this parasite under MY roof anymore!"

The heavy door of the mansion reclaimed on Erik in a thunderous sound.  
Kurt Marko had just thrown him out after he almost threatened to kill two of his footmen if Charles was not brought to him.

Charles was no longer in his stepfather's house. So where to look?

Where ?  He had to find him. He had to see him again, to tell him, to explain to him: how wrong he was, how much he loved him...

He wanted to ask for forgiveness, to ask for a chance, it wouldn't be granted,but he knew, he hoped, he prayed that in Charles' beautiful eyes he found absolution.  
But in front of this closed door, it was no longer guilt that twisted his nerves, it was anxiety. The anguish and fear he had seen in Moira's eyes when she realized that Charles was now alone in the midst of monsters.

  
How could he not have realized that yesterday? How could he leave him alone to face Schmidt and Marko and all this mephitic horde? _I thought he belonged to this world, I thought he was ashamed of me._  
But Erik could no longer hide behind his blindness.  
He had to find Charles.

* * *

 

It was past 4 pm and the night began to fall when Erik arrived to Montmartre. He climbs the narrow streets as quickly as possible.

There was an emergency, a disaster to prevent. The voice shrieked in him. His voice. Charles'. He had heard it for hours and now he no longer perceived  it, he only heard the loud sound of his heartbeats.

  
By instinct, by reflex, he had run to his old home.  
It was self-centered and puerile, but he was persuaded that if Charles had needed a refuge, he would have sought him first. As if he had been the only one who could protect him, hold him.  
He wanted to be that one, and now that he felt he had failed in that role, he wanted Charles to keep believing in that.

Erik ran faster, the urgency palpitated in his veins.  
He finally reached the little square, breathless, and his mind so focused on find there the man he loved, that he didn't see at first the crowd that stood on the pavement opposite the old house. He climbed the stairs and reached his landing.

There he stopped his course.

  
The broken door was lying inside the attic.

  
He entered, haggard, his breath cut off. The small room was a chaos: broken table, overturned chair. In the light of a candle, Angel was on all fours sponging puddles of blood smearing the floor and the mattress.

  
The scene was sordid, atrocious. Erik felt dizzy.

_Oh God, no, not that._

He knew that it had to do with Charles, he knew it viscerally. How? He could not explain it any more, but he felt even under his skin the pain of the young man who oozed from the ragged walls.

"Where is he ?"

  
Angel raised her eyes and stared at him for a second, with open mouth and round eyes. She stood up with a bound, dropped her sponge and came to grasp his hands in a burst of emotion.

"Oh Erik, I'm sorry, I should not have ... I mean, this one was one my client, an asshole but you know I need money and he saw your friend and .. he didn't want to let him go ... and when he slammed the door ... I knew that he was about to ... you know and ... "She stuttered, her strong accent making the words almost incomprehensible.

  
Erik was looking at his own hands between those, sticky with blood and dirty water, of Angel. He wanted to vomit."Where is he ?" He repeated.

Where was Charles? Where was his angel, his love? He had nothing else to know; her sordid explanations mattered little to him.

But Angel, not listening to him, continued her jabbering. "So then I went to seek help and there was Logan in Monroe's cafe and I shouted and he came and the door ... in one stroke it was broke and when he saw the kid almost naked, he started to tackle Victor, he nearly killed him and me I-"

"WHERE IS HE ?!" Erik had just screamed, he had seized the young woman's shoulders. He trembled with all his body. _Charles, please, please let him be safe, please let him be alive ..._

Angel, in front of him, was tetanized. She had never seen him in such a state. "Who ?", she said, almost afraid.

  
"Charles! The one who was there! Where is he, dammit ??!"

  
"Him ... I don't know! With all the blood and cries and Logan who wanted to kill Victor, I didn't look where he spun!"

He moved away from her, exasperated. He wanted to hit something.  
- _Do kurwy nędzy_! He blurted out.

  
Outside Paris was covered by night and Charles was lost, there, somewhere.

Powerless, Erik was powerless.

 

 

* * *

 

So simple...

  
Charles stood facing the Seine river. Long minutes had passed, perhaps hours, he remained fixed in that kind of silence which always follows dramas.

He had stopped his bewildered run on the skidding dock at the Orsay station, at the door of the shipyards of the Great Exposition.

 _Die..._  
This new century was so young, scarcely born a day, and when new times opened its arms to him, he wanted to let his future escape.  
He was there, lost in the midst of the cold winter, in the mirk of this whole city curled up on its river.

  
There was something that had attracted him there, as if this huge skeleton of modern Babylon was the origin of everything and that he had to come back here to be lost again.

He was no more than a shadow, an abandoned, lost shadow.  
Around him, Paris was black, workday had stopped, remained only the sound of the water in front of him and the noise of the street higher up.

He was alone. There was no maneuver on the edge of the wharves when the day was over.  
The black water flowed slowly a few meters below him. Dark and terrifying, it was covered with yellowish shards, it was the reflections of the street lamps of the beautiful avenues on opposite dock and of the lighted bridges . It looked like the streaming skin of an enormous sea monster coming out of its muddy den and whose oily scales were flushing the water.

  
It was there, so close, the icy water, that all-powerful river with its open mouth, ready to devour him, to swallow him up.

  
Charles looked at the wave, slow and chaotic, the black swirls.

  
He was cold, very cold. He shivered. But it did not even bother him any more. His heart had ceased its beating for hours already. There was nothing left in his chest but the useless machinery of a broken mechanism.

On his shirt, he knew, there were traces of blood. It was not his but that man's, just like ... the sperm that was staining his back was not his ... but that man's too ...

Charles remembered the weight of the heavy body of his aggressor, the crash of the broken door. He remebered standing up, dressing, and then all the blood and his flight, the sound of wooden steps, the slippery pavements as he rushed down the heights of Paris towards the emaciated silhouettes of the unfinished pavilions of the Exposition.

After the shock of his aggression, after the tidal wave of violence that had submerged him and left him haggard, half naked in the garret in the midst of cries, after all this mess: there was nothing left of him.

And now he felt nothing but a dull, stifling pain that veiled his mind and drain his last strength.  
He felt empty.

  
His body? ... He didn't know to whom it belonged ... not to him ... no more to him.

His soul ? Erik had kept it.

  
All he had left was his life, a trivial little detail, and before him the morbid waters that flowed endlessly, he was tempted to offer it to the demons of the night.

 _So simple..._  
Dying, because no dream would ever be strong enough to become his reality.

Erik. His dream.

  
Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The damp, icy air rushed into his throat. It had a taste of metal. This reminded him of the large steel frames of the future pavilions of the Exposition , the monstrous beams which his lover, with his artist's hands, had to raise, in order to earn something.  
Charles would never have the opportunity to tell him how much he admired his courage. How it had carried him, inspired him, liberated him.

Tell him he loved him.

  
Love, since that was it, since he had finally admitted that it was that in the midst of the chaos of those last days, amidst the upheavals of his life.

  
He had discovered love, that unclean amoral desire that this society plagued men like himself: it was love. Simple and pure and so fundamental that he no longer knew how to live without.

But, as his sister and his parents before her, Erik had abandoned him. Obviously ... he couldn’t keep them, didn’t deserve them.  
  
He looked at his two feet, quite straight at the edge of the solitary quay.  
The tip of his mud-covered shoes caressed the void.  
_It's so simple to stop suffering._

Charles took a step towards the black water.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was particularly violent, I hope I didn't totally disgust you! There is only one chapter left to conclude this story and I will keep the suspense to the end but those who know me know where all this goes. ;) !  
> Again, thanks to Amy for correcting my many errors. It's a big job, thanks to you!
> 
> Small explanations and translations :  
> Spanish words :  
> lindo dulce : sweety  
> gatito : kitten  
> Polish words :  
> Do kurwy nędzy : it's a very loud curse, like "Fucking asshole" or something like that.
> 
> The St-Lazare station was the first step for emigrants to go to United States, from here they could go to Le Havre a big port on the west cost of France where ships sailed to New York. Impressionist painters like Monet have represented this station in their canvas: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gare_Saint-Lazare
> 
> A picture of the St Lazare station in 1900 : http://paris1900.lartnouveau.com/paris08/lieux/gare_st%20_lazare/cpa/stlaz6.htm


	12. If we wanted to start from the beginning...

  
How could he be burning when it was so cold outside?  
Erik ran as fast as his legs could carry him. His bag was tossed on his back covered with sweat under his long overcoat. He had ran the lenght the city, his skin burning with a anguished fever which couldn't seem to leave him.

He ran incessantly, he followed the thread of his instinct. Through the decaying districts, the boulevards, past the new Opera house, then the Obelisk' square, and finally to the huge and dark Seine, which cut the city in two.

He now skirted the palisades of the building yards of the Universal Exposition, its wooden teeth to protect the skeletons of monstrous architectures. Shadows on the night sky, pagodas and temples, shoddy mausoleums and steel towers appeared.

Erik was running and passing by the buildings without seeing them.  
He soon arrived at the edge of the yards, close to the Orsay station, where the city resumed its rights over the puppet constructions.

Erik stopped at last. He was exhausted.  
From one station to another, from one moment to another, from one feeling to another, from anger, to doubt, to fear, from St Lazare to Passy, from Montmartre to the Seine, how could he find the man he loved in this too big city  in the middle of the night ?  
And yet he had to! It screamed in him. His heart ordered him this prayer he could no longer ignore. Guided by his instinct, this small flame of hope had pushed him to the great Exposition. As if it was there where all begin and end, here where, in a few months, will be the lighthouse of the whole planet.  
Erik run had brought him there. But why ? It was absurd.

True, they had walked along these streets during their beautiful afternoon stroll, but the yards were now closed for the night.  
What would Charles have found there, apart from a morbid solitude and regrets?

Erik turned desperately towards the river. The water crepitated, in places, with the splinters of the lampposts. Everything else was dark.  
There was no light on the docks. The Seine river scarcely moved, calm and black, silent, dangerous.

Erik remembered a November morning when the longshoremen had found the corpse of a woman floating between two old boats: the swollen, blue skin, the algae-like hair that covered the sagging face, the envelope of cold flesh that contained no more life. These images, which suddenly returned to him, chilled his blood.  
And his eyes filled with tears. _If I lost him, if by my fault he has..._

Erik clenched his fists, distraught, short of ideas, of forces, of hopes.  
He could not remain there to mourn, he had to resume his search.

He was about to set out again towards the east of the city when a silhouette, on the edge of the quay, attracted his attention. Frail and clothed in light, one would have said a diaphanous ghost that a simple breath could make disappear.

He looked like...  
Erik froze, his heart racing violently, his mind in shock.  
An illusion, it could only be an illusion, his senses deceived by anguish, his hope coming alive, just before he became mad.

Erik took a step, as discreetly as possible, for fear of breaking the dream, another and then another, approaching closer the one he was so afraid of recognizing.

Was it his angel, his miracle, Charles? He did not seem real, he was so pale.  
The frosty breeze ruffled the brown hair of the young man. He did not move. He stood, his arms abandoned against his body. He stared at the water, his eyes lowered.  
Erik did not dare call him. The slightest sound, a gesture, he was so close to the edge, so concentrated on the void, the slightest start would be dangerous.  
Erik approached again, as Charles closed his eyes and seemed to swallow a great gulp of air. He saw him clench his fists, breathe a sigh and lean towards the edge.  
And it was there, suddenly, that Erik felt in him an urgent, vital call, an order: _Save him!_ It was so strong and violent that, by reflex, he almost retreated.

Instead, he instinctively grabbed Charles's waist and pulled him back, far from the void, away from the water, away from the cold, close to him, in the hollow of his arms, where he should have always kept him safe.

"No, dear god, no," he stammered, wrapping the young man in his warmth.

Charles had not react, did not struggle. He was as a rag doll in Erik's arms.

Erik trembled like a leaf, he was deeply aware that death had grazed them atrociously close. If he had arrived too late then ...  
"Do not go where I can't protect you, where I can't ... follow you ..." he added, lost, burying his burning face in the hollow of Charles'icy shoulder.  
Erik stifled a sob. He hugged him more, wanting to melt in him, feeling the dull beating of his heart resound against the young man's back. Charles expired slowly and let his neck rest against Erik's shoulder, who embraced him with all the strength of his love.

"You're not real ..." Charles murmured finally, his blue eyes wide open, turned towards the night sky. "Erik is far from here now. He ... I ... I didn't deserve him..."

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Then he gently moved away from Erik. Who, at first, didn't move to restrain him dazed, and distraught as he was.

Charles's voice, as tenuous as a breath, had devastated his heart. How could he think of such a thing? Whereas it was just the opposite! Erik finally responded and took his hand, forcing him to turn around.

"Forgive me, please, forgive me!" Erik begged him as soon as he had Charles in front of him, his eyes riveted in his. Charles watched him, petrified, his skin white as a sheet of paper. His fingers were frozen, Erik felt that the cold was within his whole body, his very soul. He didn't want to lose him, he refused to lose him!

"Forgive me, my love," he repeated, putting in those few words all his conviction. Charles'eyes took on a peculiar luster. A flame of hope lit up there and, from his mouth half open, his breathing accelerated in jerks. Charles slowly came back to reality, he saw Erik, recognized him, at last. He even approached him, and held out one of his cold hands, the one that Erik didn't hold, and stroked with his fingertips: Erik's cheekbone, his cheek, stopping before reaching his lips.

"Erik?" He asked, uncertain.

The artist felt in him grow a lively, frightened joy, as fragile as the nascent flame of a candle.

"I love you, _moje serce_. I am yours, I have been since the moment I saw you. If I had known on that day that I would do you so much harm to you then ... I should have got out of your life, I should have disappeared before all this ... But I couldn't .. tear me away from you. _Aniołku, kocham cię_ "continued Erik, now unable to stop the words flowing from his heart, his mother tongue spontaneously mingling with the flood of his emotions.

Then, Erik let go of Charles's hand to bring him to him in a tender gesture, his arms embracing his waist. He plunged into his sky-like eyes, so beautiful, so profound at that moment. He came very gently to lay his forehead against his, mingling their breaths which escaped in white clouds in the frosty night.

"I'm here my love, I will not abandon you any more ..." he murmured before kissing him.

He was infinitely and desperately tender, terrified by the almost painful contrast between the warmth of his own lips and Charles' cold ones. He hugged him still more, wanting to offer him his flame, his life. He kissed his lips with all the fervor he had in him. This kiss was a promise, an allegiance.  
Charles at last replied, returning the caresses with a shivering mouth, drawing strength from his feelings at their source. He was so cold.

Erik broke their embrace, worried. His left hand entangled in the brown locks of his young lover. He seemed so fragile, so far from the confident lord, so upright in his black costume that he had discovered the night before. There was hardly a day, but it was almost a lifetime.  
Charles had his eyes closed, his two hands had taken refuge in the thick wool of Erik's waistcoat. Charles came to lay his forehead in the hollow of Erik's neck and breathed deeply. His whole body was groggy with cold. But his mind gradually recovered.

Erik. He was there. And his tender words had gradually penetrated the darkness of his soul, they had grabbed and pulled his heart out of the black and muddy water where it had already sank before his body did the same.

Charles abandoned himself to Erik's warm embrase. He had draped them both in the skirts of his overcoat. Charles didn't want to move any more, to leave this bubble of tenderness where his senses and his reason gradually rediscovered the light. He still had a hard time believing it. A few moments scarcely separated him from death. He snuggled closer to Erik's chest, embracing him, his arms tied behind his back, his face buried in his hair. He felt his warm breath, the beating of his heart, his muscles vibrating with life. It was unreal.

Erik gently kissed his temple.  
"We must find a place to stay for tonight, you must warm yourself, _mój anioł_."

Charles nodded, still too exhausted and feverish to respond verbally. Erik took off his coat and put it on him. The scent of his lover then overwhelmed Charles and he almost burst into tears, he clapped his hands over his mouth to try to swallow the sobs that gripped his throat. Erik immediately took him in his arms.  
"I'm so sorry," he repeated again and again, not knowing how to ward off all that despair, all that guilt, those regrets that both gnawed at them.

Erik managed to strengthen his reason after a few minutes. They had to take shelter, first of all, they had to be warm for the night.

With gentleness, Erik stepped away from Charles and took his hand, which he carried to his lips. Charles' blue eyes were too bright and feverish.

"Let us find somewhere to stay," he insisted.

"Guide me," Charles whispered in a choked voice.  
Erik didn't let go of his hand and dragged them into the poor and student quarters of the left bank of the Seine river.

 

* * *

 

It was not the small, round, insignificant sign that attracted them.

The _Hotel d'Alsace_ , with its simple white façade, was invisible in the narrow _Rue des Beaux-Arts_ , a few streets away from Saint-Germain-des-Prés' church.  
But Erik had seen the soft, warm light filtering through the windows of the dining room overlooking the street. The establishment thus looked like a cozy nest, an nice shelter for the two refugees they were. And above all, the place seemed modest enough for him to be able to pay for a room.

Keeping Charles's hand in his own, unable to leave it, it's with the other hand that he pushed the old wooden door painted in shredded green . They entered, almost suspicious, too accustomed already to be driven back from everywhere.

The lukewarmness of the room made them both breath a great burst of hot air. It smelled of potato soup and wood fire as well as wax, which had to be passed regularly over the rustic furnishings cluttering the whole room. The entrance opened directly into a small hall where guests had to eat. That evening a man sat alone, in the depths of a tired arm-chair, finishing a tea while reading a newspaper.

Behind a small high counter stood a chubby lady, her shoulders covered with a thick lilac shawl and the nose plunged into a sewing work.

She raised her head and her face flourished with a broad smile.  
"Good evening my boys, what can I do for you?"

It was Erik who answered her, perhaps a little keenly.  
"A room for one night is possible?"  
She detailed him from head to foot and cast an amused glance at Charles who had remained almost hidden behind him.

"Yes, we can manage it. If you are not afraid to share? I have a room with a warm bed. He seems to need to warm up, poor boy," she said, smiling at Charles, who stubbornly stared at the ground.  
She placed her work on the counter and opened the hotel 's check-in book.

"If you can write your names here." She pointed to the last line of the page, then, with her fists on her hips, she bragled in the direction of the back kitchen:  
"Hey _Le père_! Go up stairs and clean me the bed of the 4th room! We have clients!"

Erik hesitated a moment to note Charles' name. It was probably not wise to record Xavier's name, or to take a room with a single bed for two men with different surnames. He noted "Erik and Charles Lehnsherr".

The good lady noticed his embarrassment. Her gaze fills with tenderness.  
"Your brother doesn't look very much like you! That said, you have beautiful clear eyes both. You're English, are you?", she said without malice.  
Erik remained for a second stunned by her joviality. He didn't know how to react before so much kindness.  
The lonely client, who seemed to be riding in the back of the common room, sighed heavily as he got up.

He advanced towards them.  
"Ah good hostess, you frighten them, these two doves. They are like many of us: pure souls stalked by the clutches of misfortune. Your haunt, Madame Dupoirier, is the lighthouse where the immortal poets who are forgotten, and the last lovers cursed by fate, take shelter."  
With a hand that didn't hold his pommel-stick, he leaned on Erik's shoulder, to whom his breath, laden with an aniseed odor of absinthe, stifled the senses. Usually Erik would have pushed him away, but in the man's heavily surrounded eyes, he thought he was reading something extremely painful that moved him.  
"Do not be afraid to hide your two hearts here. It's only in this harbor that the angels and some demons find refuge. Society strives love everywhere as a disease's cure."  
He had said these words in a very grave, almost doctoral tone, and in concluding his sentence he turned to Charles, who was looking at him with fascination.

"But you are-" Charles began.

The faded dandy cut him with a great gesture of the hand.  
"Sweet innocent soul, I'm nobody anymore."

He greeted them with a push of his finger to his top hat.  
"Good night, gentlemen," and reached the front door. "Madame hostess, I go out to distract myself into the lights of the city of pleasures!"  
"Do not overdo yourself Mr Melmoth, think about your health."She replied.

He cracked a weary smile and went out.

Charles tightened Erik's hand in his own and he turned to him. They exchanged a tender glance. This strange encounter, this kind of benevolent faun, seemed to be a sign of fate urging them to stay in this place.  
The good lady didn't want to let them go up before they swallowed a bowl of thick soup. Charles was hungry but it was difficult for him to eat. His stomach was still far too tight to tolerate any food. Seeing this, Erik put a large piece of bread in his pocket. He would try to give him some later in the evening.

The patron of the hotel, reddish happy face and heavy, calloused hands led them to the top floor. He opened the door for them.  
"Here we are, gentlemen," he said in a frank voice.

Charles entered first, followed by Erik.  
In the coquettish room stood a high bed, furnished with a thick mattress and covered with a down. The wallpaper with pink flowers, the large dark wooden cupboard and the little mismatched bedside tables gave to all this room an air of country inn. It smelled of dust and dry lavender. An old candle and a fire in the chimney made a comforting light.

Closing the door, the owner told them, before exited, that he had left a tub by the fireplace and a bowl of hot water if they needed to wash.

Erik dropped his travel bag in a corner. He realized that the weight on his shoulder had not left him that day. It made a strange feeling on him.

He turned to Charles. The young man was slowly removing the coat that he had kept on his shoulders, even during the meal, as well as the thin waistcoat underneath.

Erik glimpsed at Charles' shirt: it was stained with blood. He shuddered, his throat dry as he approached him. Charles had red cheeks and clenched hands on the fabric of his shirt.  
"He ... he was going to...rape me ... but I struggled, so he could not ... not really ... he rubbed against me, until he ... That I feel ... in my back ... his ..."he stammered, his fingers shaking as he tried to unbutton the soiled garment.

He pulled on the shirt, suddenly snatched it from him with disgust, unable to bear its contact. His naked chest revealed itself to Erik who couldn't hold back a hiccup of surprise.

The delicate whiteness that had fascinated him during their first night of love was now marked by blue, black and purple brands.  
He was covered with bruises.

Erik clenched his teeth to hurt, his breathing accelerated, blood beat at his temples. Charles, seeing his reaction, was ashamed of his body, a testimony so blatant of his weakness. He tried to step back from Erik, and seize a blanket to hide his nakedness, which he imagined hideous in the eyes of his lover. But Erik took his wrist and gently guided him towards the fireplace.  
Under the contrast of the splinters of the fire, the marks of pain appeared almost black on the skin gilded with heat. Erik watched this bare chest with attention, he took the measure of the trials through whom Charles had endured. He passed his palm over the curve of the neck tarnished with a large handprint. His stomach twisted at the thought of the drama that had unfolded in his former attic room, of the courage that had taken Charles to face alone the chaos of that day. Never again would he leave him, amongst wolves.  
He put his lips on the rounded shoulder covered with freckles.

Then, before the soft warmth of the fire, he finished undressing him, his gestures being as delicate as possible. When Charles was completely naked, he invited him, without a word, to put himself in the wooden tub. Then he moistened a white cloth with the still warm water of the pitcher and knelt down to begin washing him.  
Charles was watching him, fascinated. He saw the man he loved on his knees, cleaning his skin meticulously, passing warm water over each muscle, following his ankles, raising to caress his legs, his thighs. He washed him like a sacred idol. Charles sighed, moved. The sensation was strangely erotic and chaste at the same time. The delicacy Erik was showing was overwhelming and he held back with difficulty the tears that had always wanted to sink since their reunion.

Erik got up and rinsed the cloth again. He caressed each wound with hot water : Charles' hips, thighs, buttocks, his shoulders and his back, where the traces of violence were most visible, his chest bluish with a large ecchymosis.  
Erik's hand trembled with anger. That flesh he had loved, that being whose soul contained so much innocence, all this suffering he should have prevented. He wanted so much to erase it.  
Charles, recognizing Erik's distress in the intensity of his gaze, interrupted his tender attentions and left the tub. The contact of his wet bare feet on the dry wood  parquet made him shudder.

Erik immediately wrapped him in a towel that he found folded on a chair. He held him in his arms and buried his nose in the hollow of his neck, breathing his skin, seeking to appease his anger.  
"I will kill him ... because he touched you, because he made you hurt ... I will kill him. Even if I end up in jail for 20 years, I'll kill him ... ", he whispered.

"And then we'll be apart again," replied Charles, sliding his palm on Erik's cheek, forcing him to raise his eyes and look at him. "Don't take me away from you Erik, don't condemn me to a life without you." He tied his arms around his neck, plating his bare chest against the coarse wool vest that still covered Erik's torso. "Don't tear me away from you again ", he whispered in his ear.

Erik breathed at length, as if to let his hatred escape. He was shattered with emotion.  
Charles kissed the corner of his lips and, raising his azure eyes to Erik' stormy gray ones, said in a soft voice:  
"I love you."  
Erik held his breath for several seconds, those words Charles had never told him before ... their echo filled his heart. They were his redemption, HE was his redemption. And now, he couldn't help smiling, a warm, deep joy, suddenly embracing him. It was a discharge of immense happiness rising in waves and filling his whole being. It was the most moving of pardons.

At this sight Charles, carried away by the comfort of that declared and shared love, kissed him. There were passion and perhaps a little madness in this kiss, something at once tender and furious, indomitable and exhausted. Erik tasted his mouth with an intoxicating slowness, he returned Charles' kiss with as much devotion as reverence.  
When their reddening lips parted, their faces were only smiles of affection.

Around them the whole room vibrated with emotion. The soft lights shaded golden halos on the walls, bringing out the old patterns of the wallpaper. The dark furniture warmed the place of their woody memory already rich of souvenirs of ten other tenants. The little chamber had filled itself with that amorous warmth which comforts hearts.

Erik guided Charles to the bed. The young man sat down and smiled when the soft mattress suddenly sank under his weight, forcing him to catch up with his hands. The towel, which he no longer held back, slipped from his shoulders and fell, revealing him to the waist.  
Erik could not take his eyes off his skin, blatant testimony of their dramatic day's  events. Charles was watching him, anxious, searching through this intense gaze to find the most imperceptible trace of disgust.  
There was none.

The moment was suspended in profound silence. Erik struggled between his guilt and his burning desire, his reason not having much part in this fight of feelings. He approached the bed, almost timid.  
Charles stopped him before he touched him.  
"Take off your clothes first, please," he asked.

Erik drew back, apologized, gnawed with contempt for himself. After what his lover had gone through, he had no right, so quickly, to hope ...  
Charles immediately interrupted him.  
"No ! No, I ... Erik it's not you ... it's just that I want to feel your skin, it's ..." he looked down at the floorboards," I want to feel that it's you who touches me and not ..." He didn't finish his sentence, it hadn't have to.

Erik would have cried. He took Charles'face in his palms and leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

"I love you, so much, my angel," he whispered tenderly, his voice altered by emotion.

He drew aside to undress. Once all of his clothes were removed, he waited for a moment standing and totally naked before him.  
Charles, without leaving his gaze, settled himself more comfortably at the bottom of the bed, half lengthened, his bust laid on a large pillow. The room was warm, he was almost feverlish.  
Erik climbed onto the mattress, he sat at his feet, admiring him tenderly, quietly. Charles slowly spread his legs, his toes brushed Erik's thigh, making him bristle his hair and shiver his skin. Charles stretched out his hands towards him.

"Come to me, please."

He needed to be in his arms, to welcome him here. He wanted their embrace to burn his skin to make him forget everything.

"You don't have to beg me ..." Erik replied, sliding against him. He took him in his arms and tucked his whole body against his skin. His lips caressed his jaw. "Not with me, never ..." He followed the line of his throat, "I'm yours."

Erik overturned them, he found himself on his back and Charles above him, thighs hugging his narrow hips. For a moment they let their eyes meld.

Charles sat up now, his eyes clear and confident. He put his hands on the valleys of Erik's chest, his fingers traced the relief of it. He went through it like a map, engraving the body of his lover like a landscape picture, his soul became a book. Erik sighed, his muscles relaxed gradually.  
Charles passed the tips of his fingers in the heat of his lower abdomen, brushing his own erection with his thumb, then coming to seize his lover's one. The contrast between the rough hair of Erik's pelvis and the softness of the skin of his strained shaft made Charles shudder. Desire rose in him, powerful and purifying. He began to caress him with a possessive hand, watching for each of his expressions.  
Erik had closed his eyes, he let out a moan, pleasure filled him in waves.  
Charles was fascinated. This man was beautiful, fragile, offered to him. He gave himself up without restrains. Erik gave him power over this embrace and none of them would lose anything at this offering.  
Charles re-learned this beloved body and with that regained his own freedom. His chest filled with hope. He leaned over to seize Erik's mouth in a long, intimate kiss, caressing his tongue with his own.  
Then he felt a need to surrender, he stopped his caress and draped himself on Erik, his nose in his ear, breathing deeply as Erik walked his back with his warm palms, along his spine, in the hollow of his thights, at the curve of his ass. The sensation was delicious.

Erik didn't dare to explore more intimately Charles' lower body. He didn't want to go any further, had no desire to do it. There was something far more erotic to slow his passion, to let the gentle sensuality guide his caresses. He kissed his cheek, his shoulder, straightened up and stretched Charles gently on his back, wrapping him in the cream sheets. It was so good, there, in this nest for them alone. The bed was welcoming with its mattress too soft where they sank, already warm down with their love.

Erik smiled at him, his heart swollen with joy.  
Charles smiled back at him. It was like he can hear Erik's thoughts. His feelings seemed to slid over his skin like a warm blanket. Erik grabbed his wrist, kissed his palm, the inside of his elbow, touched after touch, the smallest part of his body was explored with his lips. He drew Charles with an infinity of kisses. The line of his clavicle led him to one of his nipples, which he licked at length until it stood up. The second was gently excited between his fingers. Then he slipped his nose to his navel, which he tickled with the tip of his tongue. Charles squirmed and finally laughed at this amusing caress. Erik smiled even more to hear this unexpected joy.

Erik invented a thousand tender attentions to make love to him, and sometimes scarcely touched him for fear of hurting him. Charles let himself be adored. It was calm love, a long pleasure grazing the orgasm without ever reaching it, retaining him each time at the edge of the abyss.

His erection was already heavy against his groin when Erik took it in his burning mouth. Charles sighed deeply. His whole body stretched toward this one sensation, warm, moist around his hardened shaft. He closed his eyes and put his hand on his lover's neck, his fingers buried in his hair. He just wanted to cling to something real, to make sure it was him, the one he loved, that this pleasure was not an illusion. He lost himself at last, delightfully, his mind let go.  
Erik grasped his own erection that he tugged firmly, carried by the pleasure that rose in Charles and echoed in him. Charles let out a moan in which Erik recognized his name before abandoning himself to his orgasm in a long shiver. He accompanied him from the abyss to heaven, he felt like flying. Erik rested his burning face against Charles's low stomach, the taste for his desire still in his throat and his soul lulled with light.

Afterwards, they finally fell asleep, embraced, filled with love. The room was immersed in a warm and enveloping darkness. The candle on the bedside table had long been extinguished, only the embers remained in the chimney to illuminate their night.

 

 

* * *

 

Erik awoke with a start. The anguish had returned, it had snatched him from sleep with cruelty, he, who had fallen asleep gorged with hope, holding in his arms his recovered love.

He heard the groan of suffering before understanding its origin.

Charles.

He turned quickly to his young lover lying at his side. Charles breathed with difficulty, his breath stifled.

" _Aniołku_ , what's going on?"  
Erik took his hand, it was moist with sweat, clenched in the sheets.  
He passed his palm across Charles' forehead; it was burning. His young lover was not even conscious, drowned in a sudden and dazzling fever. His eyes closed, his lips parted, a painful gasp escaped him.

Erik was panic-stricken.  
A fever, of course, how could Charles had escape it until now? He, who had wandered all day in the winter cold without even a coat to protect himself. He, who had been molested, raped. Charles' body gave up now, spitting violently out of this overflow of torments.

What to do ? The dawn was not even here yet.  
Erik took the linen from the wooden tub and rinsed it with cold, clear water from the pitcher. He passed the fabric over Charles' face, on his chest, and began to try a hundred times to lower his temperature. He whispered tender words to him: he was there, near him.

  
In the morning the fever had not broken, it had even grown worse, and Erik had warned the owner and his wife. With regret, for he had feared that they would throw them out, perhaps not wanting a sick person in their hotel. But Madame Dupoirier surrounded the two young men with attention. She only lifted an eyebrow at the bruises on Charles' chest and at the blood on his shirt. Erik summarily explained to her that the anger of an unworthy stepfather was the cause of the blows, and that was why they had fled. She asked no more questions and prepared soups that Charles didn't succeed in ingesting, or so little, and forced Erik to eat some buttered bread.

He had settled on a chair near the sick man's bed and didn't let go of his hand for a long moment. He kept refreshing his skin with fresh water all afternoon. Decoctions of aromatic herbs were brought still smoking in the room. The vapors of thyme soon impregnated the sheets.  
Early in the evening, Charles began to be delirious. On his moist brow, his hair was sticking with sweat. The crease of suffering between his eyebrows wouldn't disappear. He whispered in a croaky voice. He thought he saw his sister. He repeated that she had gone by his own fault.  
Erik, to comfort him, told him about his meeting with Raven and Moira. He tried to reassure him. She was on her way to America, she was proud and healty, accompanied in this adventure by the wise governess and a shy young man who seemed to be devoted to her. Charles calmed down a little and Erik managed to steal a few hours of sleep, his head resting on his arms crossed on the edge of the high bed.

The second night was terrifying. Charles didn't wake up more or less, his body bathed in sweat, he sank into long phases of unconsciousness, and when he opened his eyes, they were feverish and mad as those of a dying man.  
And die, he was about to.

This is what ends up saying a jaded doctor called urgently while the third night of fever began. The man of science, too accustomed the sick and dying, did not sugar coat that Charles would be lucky to last the night

Erik almost strangled him, but he didn't have the strength or even the will to do it. He had only himself to blame, it was him and him alone who had led Charles into this destructive chaos, him who had led Charles to this sordid death.

The doctor threw a last resigned look at his patient and stood up to leave the room.  
"Is there nothing I can do?" Begged Erik.

The man nodded his head and left the room. Erik followed him with his eyes, frightened.

His mind was empty, his heart was an endless hole. The atrocious verdict finally reached his soul. He only got out into the corridor like a somnambulist and collapsed.  
Against the wall covered with wainscoting, his forehead glued to the dry wood, his hands open on his knees, he began to cry long, shaken noisy sobs which he couldn't contain. He wept to exhaustion, waiting for the being whom he loved more than anything in this cursed world to give his last breath and to be able to join him ... as soon as possible.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The wagon with green wood paneling was gradually filling up. The baggages of the other travelers gathered in the nets above the seats.  
Erik had only his old bag that followed him everywhere since he left New York a few years ago. It always contained a change of clothes, its drawing material and some souvenirs from here and there ...

It was already March. The Universal Exposition would open in just over a month. Erik wouldn't see the feast and the exhibitions, the grandiose inauguration and the visitors from all around the world. This plunged him into a kind of faded melancholy, which stay in his mind during a moment.

He let his eyes wander on the platforms. People crowded, the departure was planned in a few minutes. Soon he will see the city go away, soon he will leave the country ... The journey would probably not be so long to _Rouen_ , then to _Le Havre_ , then a boat and the Atlantic as far as the eye can see.  
The strident whistle of the station-master pulled him from his reverie. Outside the train, a couple of latecomers separated with effusion, they were in tears. The young woman tore herself from her lover's arms and entered the wagon where Erik was seated. She threw her little suitcase into the seat and rushed to the window, which she slipped with a sharp blow to bend over to her fiance who kissed her hands, which he hardly managed to reach.  
"I'll miss you !" He declared with emotion.  
"I will write to you ! Everyday !" She replied.  
"Do not forget me !"  
"Impossible, I can't!"  
The locomotive shook its carcass, panting, huge and metallic. The train moved slowly, the lovers disunited but the young man continued to run on the platform.

"I love you !" He shouted.

The young woman choked with a sob and could not answer. With the acceleration, the platform moved away quickly and she finally sat down on the bench with her face in her hands.  
Erik swallowed. His throat was tight.  
Now that he had learned to express them, his emotions tended to overwhelm him with sometimes too much ease. He felt fragile in those moments. These last months had subjected his heart to so many trials. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes.

 

He let out a sigh of confort when he felt the warm embrace of a hand come to cover his own. He relaxed and let the soothing feeling of serenity filled him.

He turned to the azure gaze of the man who now shared his life. The one who accompanied him in his new exile.  
_I love you_ , spelled, mute, the cherry lips that he loved so much.

Charles.  
Erik smiled at him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to thank him for being alive and at his side, for having defaited the deadly fever on this January morning after a night of hopelessness. Charles released Erik's hand in a caress before anyone noticed this innocent mark of affection.

  
They were going to be careful.  
They were going to be happy.

  
Through the window of the wagon, the landscape passed slowly, taking them away from the city of light, where for both of them, and for thousands of others, everything had begun.

  
Because… _If we wanted to start from the beginning, we would speak of this huge party that was the capital of France in the year 1899. The Universal Exposition was near to took place here and Paris was covered with flags of all nations.. Everywhere were celebrated arts and happy times, and opened wide the doors of the Belle Epoque..._

 

 

END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoyed this last chapter !  
> Translate a 50000words story, I did not believe in being able to! But it's done at last, thanks to the help of Amy who corrected my errors (precious Amy : thank you).
> 
> Yes it's a happy ending ! I had thought of putting Charles to death at the end and Erik accompanying his coffin to the Père-Lachaise cemetery (it is a magnificent place), but really I can not bear to separate these two lovers. They have so many beautiful things to live together !
> 
> And the last notes :
> 
> \- moje serce : my heart (in Polish)  
> \- Aniołku, kocham cię :angel, I love you (in Polish)  
> \- The student quarter, named St-Germain-des-Près, is near LaSorbonne university in Paris. It was a very poor quarter at that time. Lively, and in a way joyful, but poor.  
> \- The Hotel d'Alsace was a real hotel (there is still a hotel here now with another name). In 1900 the owner were really M and Mme Dupoirier.  
> \- Le père : "the father" in French, it's a rather rustic but affectionate way of calling her husband (the father of her children).  
> \- Did you recognize who was Mr. Melmoth, the strange dandy who gives his blessing to Charles and Erik? No? This is Oscar Wilde himself ! It is a historical anecdote that I am very happy to have slipped into this story. At that time he lived in Paris in this little shabby hotel. Moreover, he died in one of these rooms a few months later. The Dupoirier were always very good to him. He had a pseudonym because, after being released from prison he did not want to be recognized, it was Sebastien Melmoth.


End file.
